Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/talesoffishesOOgrey 



TALES OF FISHES 



Books by 
ZANE GREY 

^ TALES OF FISHES 

THE DESERT OF WHEAT 

THE U. P. TRAIL 

WILDFIRE 

■ THE BORDER LEGION 
-THE RAINBOW TRAIL 

THE LONE STAR RANGER 
•THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

DESERT GOLD 
•THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT 

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

THE YOUNG FORESTER 

THE YOUNG PITCHER 

THE YOUNG LION-HUNTER 

KEN WARD IN THE JUNGLE 



HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK 
Established 1817 



TALES of FISHES 



by 

Zane Grey 

President of the Long Key Fishing Club 

Honorable President of the Tuna Club of Avalon 

Author of 

"TheU. P. Trail" "The Desert of Wheat" Etc. 



Illustrated from photographs 
by the author 




HARPER Sz BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
New York and London 



1 ]X° 



Tales of Fishes 



Copyright 1019, by Harper & Brothers 

Printed in the United States of America 

Published June, 1919 

F-T 



AUG 20 1913 



ICI.A529 6 92 



CONTENTS 

CHAP. PAGE 

Verses 

I. Byme-by-Tarpon 1 

II. The Island of the Dead 8 

III. The Royal Purple Game of the Sea .... 26 

IV. Two Fights with Swordfish 54 

V. Sailfish 72 

VI. Gulf Stream Fishing 88 

VII. Bonefish 107 

VIII. Some Rare Fish 136 

IX. Swordfish 153 

X. The Gladiator of the Sea 180 

XL Seven Marlin Swordfish in One Day . . . 197 

XII. Random Notes 216 

XIII. Big Tuna 221 

XIV. AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL 250 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



The Great Colored Rollers of the Pacific . . . 

Tarpon Throwing Hook 

Leaping Tarpon 

Savalo, or Silver King 

These Wild Fowl Have the Wonderful Beauty and 

Speed of Falcons 

Rabihorcado 

The Boobies Had No Fear of Man, but Both Young 

and Old Would Pick with Their Sharp Bills . 

Young Boobies 

Suggestive of a Wild, Wind-swept Island of the Sea 
Nests Everywhere in the Sand and Moss .... 
These Huge Black Rabihorcados Were the Largest 

Species of Frigate or Man-of-war Bird . . . 

Rabihorcado Rising from Their Eggs 

Boobies of Isla de la Muerte in the Caribbean Sea 
A Swordfish Leaping off the Bold Black Shore of 

Clemente 

On the Rampage 

Swordfish on the Surface 

Holding Hard 

A Clean Greyhound Leap 

316-pound Swordfish 

The Wild-oats Slope of Clemente 

Where the Deep-blue Swell Booms Against the Lava 

Wall of Clemente Island 

Four Marlin Swordfish in One Day 

A Big Sailfish Breaking Water 

Four Sailfish in One Day on Light Tackle . . . 

Sailfish Threshing on the Surface 

Memorable of Long Key 

Leaping Sailfish 

Solitude on the Sea 

Sunset by the Sea 

Twin Tigers of the Sea — the Savage Barracuda . . 



Frontispiece 
Facing p. 2 



5 

12 

13 
14 
15 
16 



17 
20 
21 



29 
32 
33 
36 
37 
44 

45 
68 
69 
76 
77 
84 
85 
92 
93 
98 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Happy Pastime of Bonefishing Facing p. 99 

The Gamest Fish That Swims " 110 

A Wahoo " 111 

At Long Key, the Lonely Coral Shore Where the Sun 
Shines White All Day and the Stars Shine White 

All Night " 144 

The Famous Stunt of a Marlin Swordfish, "Walking 

on His Tail" " 145 

Surging in a Half-circle " 148 

Broadbill Swordfish on the Surface — the Most 

Thrilling Sight to a Sea Angler " 149 

Shining in the Sunlight " 156 

Throwing White Water Like the Explosion of a 

Torpedo " 157 

A Long, Slim Sailfish Wiggling in the Air .... " 160 

Fighting a Broadbill Swordfish " 161 

The Only Photograph Ever Taken of Leaping Broad- 
bill Swordfish *' 180 

Xiphias Gladius, the Broadsworded Gladiator of the 

Sea " 181 

A Straightaway Greyhound Leap, Marvelous for Its 

Speed and Wildness " 188 

Like a Leaping Specter *' 189 

Walking on His Tail " 192 

A Magnificent Flashing Leap. This Perfect Picture 
Considered by Author to Be Worth His Five 

Years' Labor and Patience " 193 

Tired Out — the Last Slow Heave " 196 

Hauled Aboard with Block and Tackle " 197 

R. C. On the Job " 204 

304 Pounds " 205 

R. C. Grey and Record Marlin " 205 

328-pound Record Marlin by R. C. Grey. Shapeliest 

and Most Beautiful Specimen Ever Taken . . " 208 

Sunset Over Clemente Channel " 209 

A Blue-finned Plugger of the Deep — 138-pound Tuna " 244 

avalon, the beautiful " 245 

The Old Avalon Barge Where the Gulls Fish and 

Scream " 252 

The End of the Day off Catalina Island .... " 253 

Seal Rocks " 264 



ZANE GREY 

By W. Livingston Larned 

Been to Avalon with Grey . . . been most everywhere; 
Chummed with him and fished with him in every Sportsman's 

lair. 
Helped him with the white Sea-bass and Barracuda haul, 
Shared the Tuna's sprayful sport and heard his Hunter-call, 
Me an' Grey are fishin' friends . . . Pals of rod and reel, 
Whether it's the sort that fights ... or th' humble eel, 
On and on, through Wonderland . : . winds a-blowin' free, 
Catching all th' fins that grow . . . Sportsman Grey an' Me. 

Been to Florida with Zane . . . scouting down th' coast; 
Whipped the deep for Tarpon, too, that natives love th' most. 
Seen the smiling, Tropic isles that pass, in green review, 
Gathered cocoanut and moss where Southern skies were blue. 
Seen him laugh that boyish laugh, when things were goin' 

right; 
Helped him beach our little boat and kindle fires at night. 
Comrades of the Open Way, the Treasure-Trove of Sea, 
Port Ahoy and who cares where, with Mister Grey an' Me! 

Been to Western lands with Grey . . . hunted fox and deer. 

Seen the Grizzly's ugly face with danger lurkin' near. 

Slept on needles, near th' sky, and marked th' round moon 

rise 
Over purpling peaks of snow that hurt a fellow's eyes. 
Gone, like Indians, under brush and to some mystic place — 
Home of red men, long since gone, to join their dying race. 
Yes . . . we've chummed it, onward — outward . . . mountain, 

wood, and Key, 
At the quiet readin'-table . . . Sportsman Grey an' Me. 



TALES OF FISHES 



TALES OF FISHES 



BYME-BY-TARPON 

TO capture the fish is not all of the fishing. Yet 
there are circumstances which make this 
philosophy hard to accept. I have in mind an in- 
cident of angling tribulation which rivals the most 
poignant instant of my boyhood, when a great trout 
flopped for one sharp moment on a mossy stone 
and then was gone like a golden flash into the 
depths of the pool. 

Some years ago I followed Attalano, my guide, 
down the narrow Mexican street of Tampico to the 
bank of the broad Panuco. Under the rosy dawn the 
river quivered like a restless opal. The air, sweet 
with the song of blackbird and meadowlark, was full 
of cheer; the rising sun shone in splendor on the 
water and the long line of graceful palms lining the 
opposite bank, and the tropical forest beyond, with 
its luxuriant foliage festooned by gray moss. Here 
was a day to warm the heart of any fisherman; here 
was the beautiful river, celebrated in many a story; 
here was the famous guide, skilled with oar and 
l i 



TALES OF FISHES 

gaff, rich in experience. What sport I would have; 
what treasure of keen sensation would I store; what 
flavor of life would I taste this day! Hope burns 
always in the heart of a fisherman. 

Attalano was in harmony with the day and the 
scene. He had a cheering figure, lithe and erect, 
with a springy stride, bespeaking the Montezuma 
blood said to flow in his Indian veins. Clad in a 
colored cotton shirt, blue jeans, and Spanish girdle, 
and treading the path with brown feet never de- 
formed by shoes, he would have stopped an artist. 
Soon he bent his muscular shoulders to the oars, 
and the ripples circling from each stroke hardly 
disturbed the calm Panuco. Down the stream 
glided long Indian canoes, hewn from trees and laden 
with oranges and bananas. In the stern stood a 
dark native wielding an enormous paddle with ease. 
Wild-fowl dotted the glassy expanse; white cranes 
and pink flamingoes graced the reedy bars; red- 
breasted kingfishers flew over with friendly screech. 
The salt breeze kissed my cheek; the sun shone with 
the comfortable warmth Northerners welcome in 
spring; from over the white sand-dunes far below 
came the faint boom of the ever-restless Gulf. 

We trolled up the river and down, across from 
one rush-lined lily-padded shore to the other, for 
miles and miles with never a strike. But I was con- 
tent, for over me had been cast the dreamy, care- 
dispelling languor of the South. 

When the first long, low swell of the changing tide 
rolled in, a stronger breeze raised little dimpling 
waves and chased along the water in dark, quick- 
moving frowns. All at once the tarpon began to 

2 




LEAPING TARPON 



BYME-BY-TARPON 

show, to splash, to play, to roll. It was as though 
they had been awakened by the stir and murmur of 
the miniature breakers. Broad bars of silver flashed 
in the sunlight, green backs cleft the little billows, 
wide tails slapped lazily on the water. Every yard 
of river seemed to hold a rolling fish. This sport 
increased until the long stretch of water, which had 
been as calm as St. Regis Lake at twilight, resembled 
the quick current of a Canadian stream. It was 
a fascinating, wonderful sight. But it was also 
peculiarly exasperating, because when the fish roll 
in this sportive, lazy way they will not bite. For an 
hour I trolled through this whirlpool of flying spray 
and twisting tarpon, with many a salty drop on my 
face, hearing all around me the whipping crash of 
breaking water. 

"Byme-by-tarpon," presently remarked Attalano, 
favoring me with the first specimen of his English. 

The rolling of the tarpon diminished, and finally 
ceased as noon advanced. 

No more did I cast longing eyes upon those huge 
bars of silver. They were buried treasure. The 
breeze quickened as the flowing tide gathered 
strength, and together they drove the waves higher. 
Attalano rowed across the river into the outlet of 
one of the lagoons. This narrow stream was un- 
ruffled by wind; its current was sluggish and its 
muddy waters were clarifying under the influence 
of the now fast-rising tide. 

By a sunken log near shore we rested for lunch. 

I found the shade of the trees on the bank rather 

pleasant, and became interested in a blue heron, a 

russet-colored duck, and a brown-and-black snipe, 

3 



TALES OF FISHES 

all sitting on the sunken log. Near by stood a tall 
crane watching us solemnly, and above in the tree- 
top a parrot vociferously proclaimed his knowledge 
of our presence. I was wondering if he objected to 
our invasion, at the same time taking a most wel- 
come bite for lunch, when directly in front of me 
the water flew up as if propelled by some submarine 
power. Framed in a shower of spray I saw an im- 
mense tarpon, with mouth agape and fins stiff, 
close in pursuit of frantically leaping little fish. 

The fact that Attalano dropped his sandwich 
attested to the large size and close proximity of the 
tarpon. He uttered a grunt of satisfaction and 
pushed out the boat. A school of feeding tarpon 
closed the mouth of the lagoon. Thousands of 
mullet had been cut off from their river haunts and 
were now leaping, flying, darting in wild haste to 
elude the great white monsters. In the foamy 
swirls I saw streaks of blood. 

"Byme-by-tarpon!" called Attalano, warningly. 

Shrewd guide! I had forgotten that I held a rod. 
When the realization dawned on me that sooner or 
later I would feel the strike of one of these silver 
tigers a keen, tingling thrill of excitement quivered 
over me. The primitive man asserted himself; the 
instinctive lust to conquer and to kill seized me, 
and I leaned forward, tense and strained with 
suspended breath and swelling throat. 

Suddenly the strike came, so tremendous in its 
energy that it almost pulled me from my seat; so 
quick, fierce, bewildering that I could think of 
nothing but to hold on. Then the water split with 
a hissing sound to let out a great tarpon, long as a 




SAVALO, OR SILVER KING 




THESE WILD FOWL HAVE THE WONDERFUL BEAUTY AND SPEED OF FALCONS 



BYME-BY-TARPON 

door, seemingly as wide, who shot up and up into 
the air. He wagged his head and shook it like a 
struggling wolf. When he fell back with a heavy 
splash, a rainbow, exquisitely beautiful and delicate, 
stood out of the spray, glowed, paled, and faded. 

Five times he sprang toward the blue sky, and as 
many he plunged down with a thunderous crash. 
The reel screamed. The line sang. The rod, which 
I had thought stiff as a tree, bent like a willow wand. 
The silver king came up far astern and sheered to 
the right in a long, wide curve, leaving behind a 
white wake. Then he sounded, while I watched 
the line with troubled eyes. But not long did he 
sulk. He began a series of magnificent tactics new 
in my experience. He stood on his tail, then on 
his head; he sailed like a bird; he shook himself so 
violently as to make a convulsive, shuffling sound; 
he dove, to come up covered with mud, marring his 
bright sides; he closed his huge gills with a slap 
and, most remarkable of all, he rose in the shape of 
a crescent, to straighten out with such marvelous 
power that he seemed to actually crack like a whip. 

After this performance, which left me in a con- 
dition of mental aberration, he sounded again, to 
begin a persistent, dragging pull which was the most 
disheartening of all his maneuvers; for he took yard 
after yard of line until he was far away from me, 
out in the Panuco. We followed him, and for an 
hour crossed to and fro, up and down, humoring 
him, responding to his every caprice, as if he verily 
were a king. At last, with a strange inconsistency 
more human than fishlike, he returned to the scene 
of his fatal error, and here in the mouth of the 

5 



TALES OF FISHES 

smaller stream he leaped once more. But it was 
only a ghost of his former efforts — a slow, weary 
rise, showing he was tired. I could see it in the 
weakening wag of his head. He no longer made the 
line whistle. 

I began to recover the long line. I pumped and 
reeled him closer. Reluctantly he came, not yet 
broken in spirit, though his strength had sped. He 
rolled at times with a shade of the old vigor, with a 
pathetic manifestation of the temper that became 
a hero. I could see the long, slender tip of his dorsal 
fin, then his broad tail and finally the gleam of his 
silver side. Closer he came and slowly circled around 
the boat, eying me with great, accusing eyes. I 
measured him with a fisherman's glance. What a 
great fish! Seven feet, I calculated, at the very 
least. 

At this triumphant moment I made a horrible 
discovery. About six feet from the leader the 
strands of the line had frayed, leaving only one thread 
intact. My blood ran cold and the clammy sweat 
broke out on my brow. My empire was not won; 
my first tarpon was as if he had never been. But 
true to my fishing instincts, I held on morosely; 
tenderly I handled him ; with brooding care I riveted 
my eye on the frail place in my line, and gently, 
ever so gently, I began to lead the silver king 
shoreward. Every smallest move of his tail meant 
disaster to me, so when he moved it I let go of the 
reel. Then I would have to coax him to swim back 
again. 

The boat touched the bank. I stood up and 

carefully headed my fish toward the shore, and slid 

6 



" BYME-BY-TARPON " 

his head and shoulders out on the lily-pads. One 
moment he lay there, glowing like mother-of-pearl, 
a rare fish, fresh from the sea. Then, as Attalano 
warily reached for the leader, he gave a gasp, a 
flop that deluged us with muddy water, and a lunge 
that spelled freedom. 

I watched him swim slowly away with my bright 
leader dragging beside him. Is it not the loss of 
things which makes life bitter? What we have 
gained is ours; what is lost is gone, whether fish, or 
use, or love, or name, or fame. 

I tried to put on a cheerful aspect for my guide. 
But it was too soon. Attalano, wise old fellow, 
understood my case. A smile, warm and living, 
flashed across his dark face as he spoke: 

" Byme-by-tarpon." 

Which defined his optimism and revived the fail- 
ing spark within my breast. It was, too, in the 
nature of a prophecy. 



II 

THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD 

STRANGE wild adventures fall to the lot of a 
fisherman as well as to that of a hunter. On 
board the Monterey, from Havana to Progreso, 
Yucatan, I happened to fall into conversation with 
an English globe-trotter who had just come from 
the Mont Pelee eruption. Like "all those wandering 
Englishmen, this one was exceedingly interesting. 
We exchanged experiences, and I felt that I had in- 
deed much to see and learn of the romantic Old 
World. 

In Merida, that wonderful tropic city of white 
towers and white streets and white-gowned women, 
I ran into this Englishman again. I wanted to 
see the magnificent ruins of Uxmal and Ake and 
Labna. So did he. I knew it would be a hard trip 
from Muna to the ruins, and so I explained. He 
smiled in a way to make me half ashamed of my 
doubts. We went together, and I found him to be 
a splendid fellow. We parted without knowing each 
other's names. I had no idea what he thought of 
me, but I thought he must have been somebody. 

While traveling around the coast of Yucatan I 
had heard of the wild and lonely Alacranes Reef 

8 



THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD 

where lighthouse-keepers went insane from solitude, 
and where wonderful fishes inhabited the lagoons. 
That was enough for me. Forthwith I meant to 
go to Alacranes. 

Further inquiry brought me meager but fascinat- 
ing news of an island on that lonely coral reef, 
called Isla de la Muerte (the Island of the Dead). 
Here was the haunt of a strange bird, called by 
Indians rabihorcado, and it was said to live off the 
booby, another strange sea-bird. The natives of 
the coast solemnly averred that when the rabi- 
horcado could not steal fish from the booby he killed 
himself by hanging in the brush. I did not believe 
such talk. The Spanish appeared to be rabi, mean- 
ing rabies, and horcar, to hang. 

I set about to charter a boat, and found the great 
difficulty in procuring one to be with the Yucatecan 
government. No traveler had ever before done such 
a thing. It excited suspicion. The officials thought 
the United States was looking for a coaling-station. 
Finally, through the help of the Ward line agent and 
the consul I prevailed upon them to give me such 
papers as appeared necessary. Then my Indian 
boatmen interested a crew of six, and I chartered a 
two-masted canoe-shaped bark called the Xpit. 

The crew of the Hispaniola, with the never-to-be- 
forgotten John Silver and the rest of the pirates of 
Treasure Island, could not have been a more vil- 
lainous and piratical gang than this of the bark 
Xpit. I was advised not to take the trip alone. 
But it appeared impossible to find any one to ac- 
company me. I grew worried, yet determined not 
to miss the opportunity. 



TALES OF FISHES 

Strange to relate, as I was conversing on the dock 
with a ship captain and the agent of the Ward line, 
lamenting the necessity of sailing for Alacranes 
alone, some one near by spoke up, "Take me!" 

In surprise I wheeled to see my English acquaint- 
ance who had visited the interior of Yucatan with 
me. I greeted him, thanked him, but of course did 
not take him seriously, and I proceeded to expound 
the nature of my venture. To my further surprise, 
he not only wanted to go, but he was enthusiastic. 

"But it's a hard, wild trip," I protested. "Why, 
that crew of barefooted, red-shirted Canary-Islanders 
have got me scared! Besides, you don't know me!" 

"Well, you don't know me, either," he replied, 
with his winning smile. 

Then I awoke to my own obtuseness and to the 
fact that here was a real man, in spite of the signif- 
icance of a crest upon his linen. 

"If you'll take a chance on me I'll certainly take 
one on you," I replied, and told him who I was, and 
that the Ward-line agent and American consul 
would vouch for me. 

He offered his hand with the simple reply, "My 
name is C ." 

If before I had imagined he was somebody, I now 
knew it. And that was how I met the kindest man, 
the finest philosopher, the most unselfish comrade, 
the greatest example and influence that it has ever 
been my good fortune to know upon my trips by 
land or sea. I learned this during our wonderful 
trip to the Island of the Dead. He never thought 
of himself. Hardship to him was nothing. He had 
no fear of the sea, nor of men, nor of death. It 

10 



THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD 

seemed he never rested, never slept, never let any- 
body do what he could do instead. 

That night we sailed for Alacranes. It was a 
white night of the tropics, with a million stars 
blinking in the blue dome overhead, and the Carib- 
bean Sea like a shadowed opal, calm and rippling 
and shimmering. The Xpit was not a bark of 
comfort. It had a bare deck and an empty hold. 
I could not stay below in that gloomy, ill-smelling 
pit, so I tried to sleep on deck. I lay on a hatch 
under the great boom, and what with its creaking, 
and the hollow roar of the sail, and the wash of the 
waves, and the dazzling starlight, I could not sleep. 
C. sat on a coil of rope, smoked, and watched in 
silence. I wondered about him then. 

Sunrise on the Caribbean was glorious to behold 
— a vast burst of silver and gold over a level and 
wrinkling blue sea. By day we sailed, tacking here 
and there, like lost mariners standing for some far- 
off unknown shore. That night a haze of clouds 
obscured the stars, and it developed that our red- 
shirted skipper steered by the stars. We indeed 
became lost mariners. They sounded with a greased 
lead and determined our latitude by the color and 
character of the coral or sand that came up on the 
lead. Sometimes they knew where we were and at 
others they did not have any more idea than had I. 

On the second morning out we reached Alacranes 

lighthouse; and when I saw the flat strip of sand, 

without a tree or bush to lend it grace and color, 

the bleak lighthouse, and the long, lonely reaches 

of barren reefs from which there came incessant 

moaning, I did not wonder that two former light- 

11 



TALES OF FISHES 

house-keepers had gone insane. The present keeper 
received me with the welcome always accorded a 
visitor to out-of -the- world places. He corroborated 
all that my Indian sailors had claimed for the 
rabihorcado, and added the interesting information 
that lighthouse-keepers desired the extinction of the 
birds because the guano, deposited by them on the 
roofs of the keepers' houses, poisoned the rain water 
— all they had to drink. 

I climbed the narrow, spiral stair to the lighthouse 
tower, and there, apparently lifted into the cloud- 
navigated sky, I awakened to the real wonder of 
coral reefs. Ridges of white and brown showed 
their teeth against the crawling, tireless, insatiate 
sea. Islets of dead coral gleamed like bleached bone, 
and beds of live coral, amber as wine, lay wreathed 
in restless surf. From near to far extended the 
rollers, the curving channels, and the shoals, all 
colorful, all quivering with the light of jewels. 
Golden sand sloped into the gray-green of shallow 
water, and this shaded again into darker green, 
which in turn merged into purple, reaching away to 
the far barrier reef, a white wall against the blue, 
heaving ocean. 

The crew had rowed us ashore with my boatmen 
Manuel and Augustine. And then the red-shirted 
captain stated he would like to go back to Progreso 
and return for us at our convenience. Hesitating 
over this, I finally gave permission, on the promise 
that he would bring back the Xfit in one week. 

So they sailed away, and left us soon to find out 

that we were marooned on a desert island. When I 

saw how C. took it I was glad of our enforced stay. 

12 



I 




THE BOOBIES HAD NO FEAR OF MAN, BUT BOTH YOUNG AND OLD WOULD 
PICK WITH THEIR SHARP BILLS 






THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD 

Solitude and loneliness pervaded Alacranes. Of all 
the places I had visited, this island was the most 
hauntingly lonely. 

It must have struck C. the same way, and even 
more powerfully than it had me. He was a much 
older man, and, though so unfailingly cheerful and 
helpful, he seemed to me to desire loneliness. He 
did not fish or shoot. His pleasure appeared to be 
walking the strand, around and around the little 
island, gathering bits of coral and shells and sea- 
weeds and strange things cast up by the tides. For 
hours he would sit high on the lighthouse stairway 
and gaze out over the variegated mosaic of colored 
reefs. My bed was a hammock in the loft of the 
keeper's house and it hung close to an open door. 
At night I woke often, and I would look out upon 
the lonely beach and sea. When the light flashed 
its long wheeling gleam out into the pale obscurity 
of the night it always showed C.'s dark figure on the 
lonely beach. I got into the habit of watching for 
him, and never, at any time I happened to awake, 
did I fail to see him out there. How strange he 
looms to me now! But I thought it was natural 
then. The loneliness of that coral reef haunted me. 
The sound of the sea, eternally slow and sad and 
moaning, haunted me like a passion. Men are the 
better for solitude. 

Our bark, the Xpit, did not come back for us. 
Day by day we scanned the heaving sea, far out 
beyond the barrier reef, until I began to feel like 
Crusoe upon his lonely isle. We had no way to 
know then that our crew had sailed twice from 
Progreso, getting lost the first time, and getting 

13 



TALES OF FISHES 

drunk the second, eventually returning to the home 
port. Some misfortunes turn out to be blessings. 

What adventures I had at Alacranes! But, alas! 
I cannot relate a single story about really catching 
a fish. There were many and ferocious fish that 
would rush any bait I tried, only I could not hold 
them. My tackle was not equal to what it is now. 
Perhaps, however, if it had been it would have been 
smashed just the same. 

In front of the lighthouse there had been built a 
little plank dock, running out twenty yards or so. 
The water was about six feet deep, and a channel 
of varying width meandered between the coral reefs 
out to the deep blue sea. This must have been a 
lane for big fish to come inside the barrier. Almost 
always there were great shadows drifting around in 
the water. First I tried artificial baits. Some one, 
hoping to convert me, had given me a whole box 
of those ugly, murderous plug-baits made famous by 
Robert H. Davis. Whenever I made a cast with 
one of these a big fish would hit it and either strip 
the hooks off or break my tackle. Some of these 
fish leaped clear. They looked like barracuda to 
me, only they were almost as silvery as a tarpon. 
One looked ten feet long and as big around as a 
telegraph pole. When this one smashed the water 
white and leaped, Manuel yelled, "Pecuda!" I tried 
hard to catch a specimen, and had a good many 
hooked, but they always broke away. I did not 
know then, as I know now, that barracuda grow 
to twelve feet in the Caribbean. That fact is men- 
tioned in records and natural histories. 

Out in the deeper lagoons I hooked huge fish that 

14 



THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD 

swam off ponderously, dragging the skiff until my 
line parted. Once I was fortunate enough to see 
one, which fact dispelled any possibility of its being 
a shark. Manuel called it " Cherrta!" It looked like 
a giant sea-bass and would have weighed at least 
eight hundred pounds. The color was lighter than 
any sea-bass I ever studied. My Indian boatmen 
claimed this fish was a man-eater and that he and his 
crew had once fought one all day and then it broke 
away. The fish I saw was huge enough to swallow 
a man, that was certain. I think this species must 
have been the great June-fish of the Gulf. I hooked 
one once at the mouth of the Panuco River in Mexico 
and it nearly swamped the boat. 

Soon my tackle was all used up, and, for want of 
better, I had to use tiny hooks and thread lines — 
because I was going to fish, by hook or crook! This 
method, however, which I learned first of all, is not 
to be despised. Whenever I get my hand on a 
thin, light, stiff reed pole and a long, light line 
of thread with a little hook, then I revert to boyhood 
days and sunfish and chubs and shiners and bull- 
heads. Could any fisherman desire more joy? 
Those days are the best. 

The child is father of the man 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 

In the shallow water near the dock there always 
floated a dense school of little fish like sardines. 
They drifted? floated, hovered beside the dock, and 
when one of the big fish would rush near they 
would make a breaking roar on the surface. Of 

15 



TALES OF FISHES 

me they evinced no fear whatever. But no bait, 
natural or artificial, that I could discover, tempted 
them to bite. This roused my cantankerous spirit 
to catch some of those little fish or else fall inesti- 
mably in my own regard. I noted that whenever I 
cast over "the school it disintegrated. A circle wi- 
dened from the center, and where had been a black 
mass of fish was only sand. But as my hook settled to 
the bottom the dark circle narrowed and closed until 
the school was densely packed as before. Where- 
upon I tied several of the tiny hooks together with 
a bit of lead, and, casting that out, I waited till 
all was black around my line, then I jerked. I 
snagged one of the little fish and found him to be 
a beautiful, silvery, flat-sided shiner of unknown 
species to me. Every cast I made thereafter caught 
one of them. And they were as good to eat as a 
sardine and better than a mullet. 

My English comrade, C, sometimes went with 
me, and when he did go, the interest and kindly 
curiosity and pleasure upon his face were a constant 
source of delight to me. I knew that I was as new 
a species to him as the little fish were to me. But 
C. had become so nearly a perfectly educated man 
that nothing surprised him, nothing made him won- 
der. He sympathized, he understood, he could put 
himself in the place of another. What worried me, 
however, was the simple fact that he did not care 
to fish or shoot for the so-called sport of either. I 
think my education on a higher plane began at Ala- 
cranes, in the society of that lonely Englishman. 
Somehow I have gravitated toward the men who 
have been good for me. 

16 



THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD 

But C. enjoyed action as well as contemplation. 
Once out on the shoals when Manuel harpooned a 
huge hawk-bill turtle — the valuable species from 
which the amber shell is derived — we had a thrilling 
and dangerous ride. For the turtle hauled us at a 
terrific rate through the water. Then C. joined in 
with the yells of the Indians. He was glad, how- 
ever, when the turtle left us stranded high upon a 
coral bed. 

On moonlight nights when the tide was low C 
especially enjoyed wading on the shoals and hunting 
for the langustas, or giant lobsters. This was excit- 
ing sport. We used barrel-hoops with nets, and 
when we saw a lobster shining in the shallow water 
we waded noiselessly close to swoop down upon him 
with a great splash. I was always afraid of these 
huge crayfish, but C. was not. His courage might 
have been predatory, for he certainly liked to eat 
lobster. But he had a scare one night when a devil- 
fish or tremendous ray got between him and the 
shore and made the water fly aloft in a geyser. It 
was certainly fun for me to see that dignified Eng- 
lishman make tracks across the shoal. 

To conclude about C, when I went on to Mexico 

City with him I met friends of his there, a lord and 

a duke traveling incognito. C. himself was a peer of 

England and a major in the English army. But I 

never learned this till we got to Tampico, where 

they went with me for the tarpon-fishing. They 

were rare fine fellows. L., the little Englishman, 

could do anything under the sun, and it was from 

him I got my type for Castleton, the Englishman, 

in The Light of Western Stars. I have been told 
2 17 



TALES OF FISHES 

that never was there an Englishman on earth like 
the one I portrayed in my novel. But my critics 
never fished with Lord L.! 

These English friends went with me to the station 
to bid me good-by and good luck. We were to part 
there, they to take ship for London, and I to take 
train for the headwaters of the Panuco River, down 
which unknown streams I was to find my way through 
jungle to the Gulf. Here I was told that C. had 
lost his only son in the Boer War, and since then 
had never been able to rest or sleep or remain in 
one place. That stunned me, for I remembered 
that he had seemed to live only to forget himself, 
to think of others. It was a great lesson to me. 
And now, since I have not heard from him during 
the four years of the world war, I seem to divine 
that he has "gone west"; he has taken his last 
restless, helpful journey, along with the best and 
noblest of England's blood. 

Because this fish-story has so little of fish in it 
does not prove that a man cannot fish for other game 
than fish. I remember when I was a boy that I 
went with my brother — the R. C. and the Reddy 
of the accompanying pages — to fish for bass at Dil- 
lon's Falls in Ohio. Alas for Bill Dilg and Bob 
Davis, who never saw this blue-blooded home of 
bronze-back black-bass! In the heat of the day my 
brother and I jabbed our poles into the bank, and 
set off to amuse ourselves some other way for a 
while. When we returned my pole was pulled down 
and wabbling so as to make a commotion in the 
water. Quickly I grasped it and pulled, while 

18 



THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD 

Reddy stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Surely 
a big bass had taken my bait and hooked him- 
self. Never had I felt so heavy and strong a bass! 
The line swished back and forth; my pole bent 
more and more as I lifted. The water boiled and 
burst in a strange splash. Then! a big duck 
flew, as if by magic, right out from before us. 
So amazed was I that he nearly pulled the pole 
out of my hands. Reddy yelled wildly. The duck 
broke the line and sped away. . . . That moment 
will never be forgotten. It took us so long to 
realize that the duck had swallowed my minnow, 
hooked himself, and happened to be under the 
surface when we returned. 

So the point of my main story, like that of the 
above, is about how I set out to catch fish, and, 
failing, found for such loss abundant recompense. 

Manuel and Augustine, my Indian sailors, em- 
barked with me in a boat for the Island of the Dead. 
Millions of marine creatures swarmed in the laby- 
rinthine waterways. Then, as we neared the land, 
" Rabihorcado!" exclaimed Manuel, pointing to a 
black cloud hovering over the island. 

As we approached the sandy strip I made it out 
to be about half a mile long, lying only a few feet 
above the level of the sea. Hundreds of great, black 
birds flew out to meet us and sailed over the boat, 
a sable-winged, hoarse-voiced crowd. When we 
beached I sprang ashore and ran up the sand to the 
edge of green. The whole end of the island was 
white with birds — large, beautiful, snowy birds with 
shiny black bars across their wings. 

19 



TALES OF FISHES 

"Boobies," said Manuel and motioned me to go 
forward. 

They greeted our approach with the most discord- 
ant din it had ever been my fortune to hear. A 
mingling of honk and cackle, it manifested not excite- 
ment so much as curiosity. I walked among the 
boobies, and they never moved except to pick at 
me with long, sharp bills. Many were sitting on 
nests, and all around in the sand were nests with 
eggs, and little boobies just hatched, and others in 
every stage of growth, up to big babies of birds like 
huge balls of pure white wool. I wondered where the 
thousands of mothers were. The young ones showed 
no concern when I picked them up, save to dig into 
me with curious bills. 

I saw an old booby, close by, raise his black-barred 
wings, and, flapping them, start to run across the 
sand. In this way he launched himself into the air 
and started out to sea. Presently I noticed several 
more flying away, one at a time, while others came 
sailing back again. How they could sail! They 
had the swift, graceful flight of a falcon. 

For a while I puzzled over the significance of this 
outgoing and incoming. Shortly a bird soared 
overhead, circled with powerful sweep, and alighted 
within ten feet of me. The bird watched me with 
gray, unintelligent eyes. They were stupid, un- 
canny eyes, yet somehow so fixed and staring as to 
seem accusing. One of the little white balls of wool 
waddled up and, rubbing its fuzzy head against the 
booby, proclaimed the filial relation. After a few 
rubs and wabbles the young bird opened wide its 
bill and let out shrill cries. The mother bobbed 

20 



THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD 

up and down in evident consternation, walked away, 
came back, and with an eye on me plainly sought 
to pacify her fledgling. Suddenly she put her bill 
far down into the wide-open bill, effectually stifling 
the cries. Then the two boobies stood locked in 
amazing convulsions. The throat of the mother 
swelled, and a lump passed into and down the throat 
of the young bird. The puzzle of the flying boobies 
was solved in the startling realization that the 
mother had returned from the sea with a fish in 
her stomach and had disgorged it into the gullet 
of her offspring. 

I watched this feat performed dozens of times, 
and at length scared a mother booby into with- 
drawing her bill and dropping a fish on the sand. 
It was a flying-fish fully ten inches long. I inter- 
rupted several little dinner-parties, and in each case 
found the disgorged fish to be of the flying species. 
The boobies flew ten, twenty miles out to the open 
sea for fish, while the innumerable shoals that lay 
around their island were alive with sardine and 
herringi 

I had raised a tremendous row; so, leaving the 
boobies to quiet down, I made my way toward the 
flocks of rabihorcados. Here and there in the thick 
growth of green weed were boobies squatting on 
isolated nests. No sooner had I gotten close to the 
rabihorcados than I made sure they were the far- 
famed frigate pelicans, or man-of-war birds. They 
were as tame as the boobies; as I walked among 
them many did not fly at all. Others rose with 
soft, swishing sound of great wings and floated in a 

circle, uttering deep-throated cries, not unlike the 

21 



TALES OF FISHES 

dismal croak of ravens. Perfectly built for the air, 
they were like feathers blown by a breeze. Light, 
thin, long, sharp, with enormous spread of wings, 
beautiful with the beauty of dead, blue-black sheen, 
and yet hideous, too, with their grisly necks and cruel, 
crooked beaks and vulture eyes, they were surely 
magnificent specimens of winged creation. 

Nests of dried weeds littered the ground, and 
eggs and young were everywhere. The little ones 
were covered with white down, and the developing 
feathers on their wings were turning black. They 
squalled unremittingly, which squalling I decided 
was not so much on my account as because of a 
swarm of black flies that attacked them when the 
mothers flew away. I was hard put to it myself to 
keep these flies, large as pennies and as flat, from 
eating me alive. They slipped up my sleeves and 
trousers and their bite made a wasp-sting pleasure 
by comparison. 

By rushing into a flock of rabihorcados I succeeded 
several times in catching one in my hands. And 
spreading it out, I made guesses as to width from 
tip to tip of wings. None were under seven feet; 
one measured all of eight. They made no strenuous 
resistance and regarded me with cold eyes. Every 
flock that I put to flight left several dozen little ones 
squalling in the nests; and at one place an old 
booby waddled to the nests and began to maltreat 
the young rabihorcados. Instincts of humanity bade 
me scare the old brute away until I happened to 
remember the relation existing between the two 
species. Then I watched. With my own eyes I 
saw that grizzled booby pick and bite and wring 

22 



THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD 

those poor little birds with a grim and deadly de- 
liberation. When the mothers, soon returning, flut- 
tered down, they did not attack the booby, but pro- 
tected their little ones by covering them with body 
and wings. Conviction came upon me that it was 
instinctive for the booby to kill the parasitical rabi- 
horcado; and likewise instinctive for the rabihorcado 
to preserve the life of the booby. 

A shout from Manuel directed me toward the ex- 
treme eastern end of the island. On the way I 
discovered many little dead birds, and the farther 
I went the more I found. Among the low bushes 
were also many old rabihorcados, dead and dry. 
Some were twisted among the network of branches, 
and several were hanging in limp, grotesque, hor- 
ribly suggestive attitudes of death. Manuel had 
all of the Indian's leaning toward the mystical, and 
he believed the rabihorcados had destroyed them- 
selves. Starved they may very well have been, 
but to me the gales of that wind-swept, ocean desert 
accounted for the hanging rabihorcados. Still, when 
face to face with the island, with its strife, and its 
illustration of the survival of the fittest, all that 
Manuel had claimed and more, I had to acknowledge 
the disquieting force of the thing and its stunning 
blow to an imagined knowledge of life and its secrets. 

Suddenly Manuel shouted and pointed westward. 
I saw long white streams of sea-birds coming toward 
the island. My glass showed them to be boobies. 
An instant later thousands of rabihorcados took wing 
as if impelled by a common motive. Manuel ran 
ahead in his excitement, turning to shout to me, 
and then to point toward the wavering, swelling, 



TALES OF FISHES 

white streams. I hurried after him, to that end 
of the island where we had landed, and I found the 
colony of boobies in a state of great perturbation. 
All were squawking, flapping wings, and waddling 
frantically about. Here was fear such as had not 
appeared on my advent. 

Thousands of boobies were returning from deep- 
sea fishing, and as they neared the island they were 
met and set upon by a swarming army of rabihor- 
cados. Darting white and black streaks crossed the 
blue of sky like a changeful web. The air was full 
of plaintive cries and hoarse croaks and the windy 
rush of wings. So marvelous was this scene of in- 
credibly swift action, of kaleidoscopic change, of 
streaking lines and curves, that the tragedy at first 
was lost upon me. Then the shrieking of a booby 
told me that the robber birds were after their prey. 
Manuel lay flat on the ground to avoid being struck 
by low-flying birds, but I remained standing in order 
to see the better. Faster and faster circled the pur- 
sued and pursuers and louder grew the cries and 
croaks. My gaze was bewildered by the endless, 
eddying stream of birds. 

Then I turned my back on sea and beach where 
this bee-swarm confused my vision, and looked to 
see single boobies whirling here and there with two 
or three black demons in pursuit. I picked out one 
group and turned my glass upon it. Many battles 
had I seen by field and stream and mountain, but 
this unequal battle by sea eclipsed all. The booby's 
mother instinct was to get to her young with the 
precious fish that meant life. And she would have 
been more than a match for any one thief. But she 



THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD 

could not cope successfully with two fierce rabihor- 
cados; for one soared above her, resting, watching, 
while the other darted and whirled to the attack. 
They changed, now one black demon swooping down, 
and then the other, in calculating, pitiless pursuit. 
How glorious she was in poise and swerve and sweep ! 
For what seemed a long time neither rabihorcado 
touched her. What distance she could have placed 
between them but for that faithful mother instinct! 
She kept circling, ever returning, drawn back toward 
the sand by the magnet of love; and the powerful 
wings seemed slowly to lose strength. Closer the 
rabihorcados swooped and rose and swooped again, 
till one of them, shooting down like a black flash, 
struck her in the back. The white feathers flew 
away on the wind. She swept up, appeared to pause 
wearily and quiver, then disgorged her fish. It 
glinted in the sunlight. The rabihorcado dropped in 
easy, downward curve and caught it as it fell. 

So the struggle for existence continued till I 
seemed to see all the world before me with its myriads 
of wild creatures preying upon one another; the 
spirit of nature, unquenchable as the fires of the 
sun, continuing ceaseless and imperturbable in its 
inscrutable design. 

As we rowed away I looked back. Sky of a dull 
purple, like smoke with fire behind it, framed the 
birds of power and prey in colors suitable to their 
spirit. My ears were filled with the haunting sound 
of the sea, the sad wash of the surf, the harmonious 
and mournful music of the Island of the Dead. 



Ill 

THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

TO the great majority of anglers it may seem 
unreasonable to place swordfishing in a class by 
itself — by far the most magnificent sport in the world 
with rod and reel. Yet I do not hesitate to make 
this statement and believe I can prove it. 

The sport is young at this writing — very little 
has been written by men who have caught swordfish. 
It was this that attracted me. Quite a number of 
fishermen have caught a swordfish. But every one 
of them will have something different to tell you 
and the information thus gleaned is apt to leave 
you at sea, both metaphorically and actually. 
Quite a number of fishermen, out after yellowtail, 
have sighted a swordfish, and with the assistance 
of heavy tackle and their boatmen have caught that 
swordfish. Some few men have caught a small 
swordfish so quickly and easily that they cannot 
appreciate what happened. On the other hand, one 
very large swordfish, a record, was caught in an 
hour, after a loggy rolling about, like a shark, with- 
out leaping. But these are not fighting swordfish. 
Of course, under any circumstances, it is an event 
to catch a swordfish. But the accidents, the flukes, 

26 



THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

the lucky stabs of the game, do not in any sense 
prove what swordfishing is or what it is not. 

In August, 1914, I arrived at Avalon with tuna 
experience behind me, with tarpon experience, and 
all the other kinds of fishing experience, even to 
the hooking of a swordfish in Mexico. I am in- 
clined to confess that all this experience made me — 
well, somewhat too assured. Any one will excuse 
my enthusiasm. The day of my arrival I met Par- 
ker, the genial taxidermist of Avalon, and I started 
to tell him how I wanted my swordfish mounted. 
He interrupted me: "Say, young fellow, you want 
to catch a swordfish first!" One of the tuna boat- 
men gave me a harder jolt. He said: "Well, if 
you fish steadily for a couple of weeks, maybe you'll 
get a strike. And one swordfish caught out of ten 
strikes is good work!" But Danielson was optimis- 
tic and encouraging, as any good boatman ought to 
be. If I had not been fortunate enough to secure 
Captain Dan as my boatman, it is certain that one 
of the most wonderful fishing experiences on record 
would have fallen to some other fisherman, instead 
of to me. 

We went over to Clemente Island, which is thirty- 
six miles from Catalina Island. Clemente is a moun- 
tain rising out of the sea, uninhabited, lonely, wild, 
and beautiful. But I will tell about the island later. 

The weather was perfect, the conditions were ap- 
parently ideal. I shall never forget the sight of the 
first swordfish, with his great sickle-shaped tail and 
his purple fin. Nor am I likely to forget my disap- 
pointment when he totally ignored the flying-fish 
bait we trolled before him. 

27 



TALES OF FISHES 

That experience was but a forerunner to others 
just like it. Every day we sighted one or more 
swordfish. But we could not get one to take hold. 
Captain Dan said there was more chance of getting 
a strike from a swordfish that was not visible roll- 
ing on the surface. Now a flying-fish bait makes 
a rather heavy bait to troll; and as it is impera- 
tive to have the reel free running and held lightly 
with the thumb, after a few hours such trolling be- 
comes hard work. Hard as it was, it did not wear on 
me like the strain of being always ready for a strike. 
I doubt if any fisherman could stand this strain. 

In twenty-one days I had seen nineteen sword- 
fish, several of which had leaped playfully, or to 
shake off the remoras — parasite, blood-sucking little 
fish — and the sight of every one had only served to 
increase my fascination. By this time I had 
realized something of the difficult nature of the 
game, and I had begun to have an inkling of what 
sport it might be. During those twenty-one days 
we had trolled fifteen hundred miles, altogether, up 
and down that twenty-five-mile coast of rugged 
Clemente. And we had trolled round these fish in 
every conceivable way. I cannot begin to describe 
my sensations when we circled round a swordfish, 
and they grew more intense and acute as the strain 
and suspense dragged. Captain Dan, of course, 
was mostly dominated by my feeling. All the same, 
I think the strain affected him on his own account. 

Then one day Boschen came over to Clemente 
with Farnsworth — and let me explain, by the way, 
that Boschen is probably the greatest heavy-tackle 
fisherman living. Boschen would not fish for any- 

28 




ON THE RAMPAGE 






THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

thing except tuna or swordfish, and up to this visit 
to Clemente he had caught many tuna, but only 
one swordfish, a Xiphias. This is the broadbill, or 
true, swordfish; and he is even rarer, and certainly 
larger and fiercer, than the Marlin, or roundbill, 
swordfish. This time at Clemente, Boschen caught 
his first Marlin and it weighed over three hundred 
pounds, leaped clear into the air sixty-three times, 
and gave a spectacular and magnificent surface fight 
that simply beggared description. 

It made me wild to catch one, of like weight and 
ferocity. I spent several more endless days in vain. 
Then on the twenty-fifth day, way off the east end 
of Clemente, we sighted a swordfish with a tail 
almost pink. He had just come to those waters 
and had not yet gotten sunburnt. We did not have 
to circle round him! At long distance he saw my 
bait, and as he went under I saw he had headed 
for it. I remember that I shook all over. And 
when I felt him take that bait, thrill on thrill elec- 
trified me. Steadily the line ran off the reel. Then 
Captain Dan leaned over and whispered, hoarsely: 

"When you think he's had enough throw on your 
drag and strike. Then wind quick and strike again. 
. . . Wind and strike! Keep it up till he shows!'* 

Despite my intense excitement, I was calm enough 
to follow directions. But when I struck I felt no 
weight at all — no strain on the line. Frantically I 
wound and jerked — again and again! I never felt 
him at all. Suddenly my line rose — and then, be- 
wilderingly near the boat, when I was looking far 
off, the water split with a roar and out shot a huge, 
gleaming, white-and-purple fish. He blurred in my 



TALES OF FISHES 

sight. Down he went with a crash. I wound the 
reel like a madman, but I never even half got up 
the slack line. The swordfish had run straight tow- 
ard the boat. He leaped again, in a place I did not 
expect, and going down, instantly came up in an- 
other direction. His speed, his savageness, stunned 
me. I could not judge of his strength, for I never 
felt his weight. The next leap I saw him sling the 
hook. It was a great performance. Then that 
swordfish, finding himself free, leaped for the open 
sea, and every few yards he came out in a clean jump. 
I watched him, too fascinated to count the times 
he broke water, but he kept it up till he was out of 
sight on the horizon. 

At first Captain Dan took the loss harder than I 
took it. But gradually I realized what had hap- 
pened, and, though I made a brave effort to be game 
and cheerful, I was sick. It did seem hard that, 
after all those twenty-five days of patience and hope 
and toil, I could not have hooked the swordfish. 
I see now that it was nothing, only an incident, but 
I shall never forget the pang. 

That day ended my 1914 experience. The strain 
had been too hard on me. It had taken all this time 
for me to appreciate what swordfishing might be. 
I assured Captain Dan I would come back in 1915, 
but at the time he did not believe me. He said: 

"If you hadn't stuck it out so long I wouldn't 
care. Most of the fishermen try only a few days 
and never come back. Don't quit now!" 

But I did go back in 1915. Long ago on my lone- 
ly desert trips I learned the value of companions 

30 



THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

and I dreaded the strain of this swordfishing game. 
I needed some one to help lessen it. Besides that, 
I needed snapshot pictures of leaping swordfish, 
and it was obvious that Captain Dan and I would 
have our hands full when a fish got hooked. We 
had music, books, magazines — everything that could 
be thought of. 

Murphy, the famous old Avalon fisherman and 
tackle-maker, had made me a double split-bamboo 
rod, and I had brought the much-talked-of B-Ocean 
reel. This is Boschen's invention — one he was 
years in perfecting. It held fifteen hundred feet 
of No. 24 line. And I will say now that it is a grand 
reel, the best on the market. But I did not know 
that then, and had to go through the trip with it, 
till we were both tried out. Lastly, and most im- 
portant, I had worked to get into condition to fight 
swordfish. For weeks I rowed a boat at home to 
get arms and back in shape, and especially my hands. 
Let no fisherman imagine he can land a fighting 
swordfish with soft hands! 

So, prepared for a long, hard strain, like that of 
1914, I left Avalon hopeful, of course, but serious, 
determined, and alive to the possibilities of failure. 

I did not troll across the channel between the 

islands. There was a big swell running, and four 

hours of it gave me a disagreeable feeling. Now 

and then I got up to see how far off Clemente was. 

And upon the last of these occasions I saw the fins 

of a swordfish right across our bow. I yelled to 

Captain Dan. He turned the boat aside, almost on 

top of the swordfish. Hurriedly I put a bait on 

my hook and got it overboard, and let the line run. 

si 



TALES OF FISHES 

Then I looked about for the swordfish. He had 
gone down. 

It seemed then that, simultaneously with the re- 
currence of a peculiar and familiar disappointment, 
a heavy and powerful fish viciously took my bait 
and swept away. I yelled to Captain Dan: 

"He's got it!" . . . 

Captain Dan stopped the engine and came to my 
side. "No!" he exclaimed. 

Then I replied, "Look at that line!" . . . 

It seemed like a dream. Too good to be true! 
I let out a shout when I hooked him and a yell of 
joy when he broke water — a big swordfish, over two 
hundred pounds. What really transpired on Cap- 
tain Dan's boat the following few moments I can- 
not adequately describe. Suffice to say that it was 
violent effort, excitement, and hilarity. I never 
counted the leaps of the swordfish. I never clearly 
saw him after that first leap. He seemed only a 
gleam in flying spray. Still, I did not make any 
mistakes. 

At the end of perhaps a quarter of an hour the 
swordfish quit his surface work and settled down to 
under-water fighting, and I began to find myself. 
Captain Dan played the phonograph, laughed, and 
joked while I fought .the fish. My companions 
watched my rod and line and the water, wide-eyed 
and mute, as if they could not believe what seemed 
true. 

In about an hour and a half the swordfish came 
up and, tired out, he rolled on the top of the great 
swells. But he could not be drawn near the boat. 
One little wave of his tail made my rod bend danger- 

32 




J 



r 





SWORDFISH ON THE SURFACE 




HOLDING HARD 



THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

ously. Still, I knew I had him beaten, and I cal- 
culated that in another hour, perhaps, I could lead 
him alongside. 

Then, like thunder out of a clear sky, something 
went wrong with the great B -Ocean reel. It worked 
hard. When a big swell carried the swordfish up, 
pulling out line, the reel rasped. 

"It's freezing on you!" shouted Captain Dan, 
with dark glance. 

A new reel sometimes clogs and stops from fric- 
tion and heat. I had had von Hofe and other reels 
freeze. But in this instance, it seemed that for the 
reel to freeze would be simply heartbreaking. Well 
— it froze, tight as a shut vise ! I sat there, clutching 
the vibrating rod, and I watched the swordfish as 
the swells lifted him. I expected the line to break, 
but, instead, the hook tore out. 

Next day we sighted four swordfish and tried in 
vain to coax one to bite. 

Next day we sighted ten swordfish, which is a 
record for one day. They were indifferent. 

The next three. The next one, with like result. 
The next day no fish were sighted, and that fact 
encouraged Captain Dan. 

The next day, late in the afternoon, I had a strike 
and hooked a swordfish. He leaped twice and threw 
the hook. 

The next day I got eleven jumps out of another 
before he gracefully flung the hook at the boat. 

The next day, a big swordfish, with a ragged 
purple fin, took my bait right astern of the boat 
and sounded deep. I hooked him. Time and time 
again I struck with all my might. The fish did not 

3 33 



TALES OF FISHES 

seem to mind that. He swam along with the boat. 
He appeared very heavy. I was elated and curious. 

"What's he going to do?" I kept asking Captain 
Dan. 

"Wait!" he exclaimed. 

After six minutes the swordfish came up, probably 
annoyed by the hook fast in him. When he showed 
his flippers, as Captain Dan called them, we all 
burst out with wonder and awe. As yet I had no 
reason to fear a swordfish. 

"He's a whale!" yelled Captain Dan. 

Probably this fish measured eight feet between his 
dorsal fin and the great curved fluke of his tail, and 
that would make his total length over twelve feet. 

No doubt the swordfish associated the thing fast 
in his jaw with the boat, for he suddenly awoke. 
He lifted himself, wagging his sword, showing his 
great silvery side. Then he began to thresh. I 
never felt a quarter of such power at the end of a 
line. He went swift as a flash. Then he leaped 
sheer ahead, like a porpoise, only infinitely more 
active. We all yelled. He was of great size, over 
three hundred, broad, heavy, long, and the most 
violent and savage fish I ever had a look at. Then 
he rose half — two-thirds out of the water, shaking his 
massive head, jaws open, sword sweeping, and 
seemed to move across the water in a growing, boiling 
maelstrom of foam. This was the famous "walking 
on his tail" I had heard so much about. It was an 
incredible feat. He must have covered fifty yards. 
Then he plunged down, and turned swiftly in a curve 
toward the boat. He looked threatening to me. I 
could not manage the slack line. One more leap 



THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

and he threw the hook. I found the point of the 
hook bent. It had never been embedded in his 
jaw. And also I found that his violent exercise 
had lasted just one minute. I wondered how long 
I would have lasted had the hook been deep-set. 

Next day I had a swordfish take my bait, swim 
away on the surface, showing the flying-fish plainly 
between his narrow beak, and after fooling with it 
for a while he ejected it. 

Next day I got a great splashing strike from an- 
other, without even a sight of the fish. 

Next day I hooked one that made nineteen beau- 
tiful leaps straightaway before he got rid of the 
hook. 

And about that time I was come to a sad pass. 
In fact, I could not sleep, eat, or rest. I was crazy 
on swordfish. 

Day after day, from early morning till late after- 
noon, aboard on the sea, trolling, watching, waiting, 
eternally on the alert, I had kept at the game. My 
emotional temperament made this game a particu- 
larly trying one. And every possible unlucky, un- 
foreseen, and sickening thing that could happen to 
a fisherman had happened. I grew morbid, hope- 
less. I could no longer see the beauty of that wild 
and lonely island, nor the wonder of that smooth, 
blue Pacific, nor the myriad of strange sea-creatures. 
It was a bad state of mind which I could not wholly 
conquer. Only by going at it so hard, and sticking 
so long, without any rests, could I gain the experi- 
ence I wanted. A man to be a great fisherman should 
have what makes Stewart White a great hunter — 
no emotions. If a lion charged me I would imagine 

35 



TALES OF FISHES 

a million things. Once when a Mexican tigre, a 
jaguar, charged me I — But that is not this story. 
Boschen has the temperament for a great fisherman. 
He is phlegmatic. All day — and day after day — he 
sits there, on trigger, so to speak, waiting for the 
strike that will come. He is so constituted that it 
does not matter to him how soon or how late the 
strike comes. To me the wait, the suspense, grew 
to be maddening. Yet I stuck it out, and in this I 
claim a victory, of which I am prouder than I am 
of the record that gave me more swordfish to my 
credit than any other fisherman has taken. 

On the next day, August 11th, about three o'clock, 
I saw a long, moving shadow back of my bait. I 
jumped up. There was the purple, drifting shape of 
a swordfish. I felt a slight vibration when he hit 
the bait with his sword. Then he took the bait. 
I hooked this swordfish. He leaped eight times 
before he started out to sea. He took us three 
miles. In an hour and five minutes I brought him 
to gaff — a small fish. Captain Dan would take no 
chances of losing him. He risked much when he 
grasped the waving sword with his right hand, and 
with the gaff in his left he hauled the swordfish 
aboard and let him slide down into the cockpit. 
For Captain Dan it was no less an overcoming of 
obstinate difficulty than for me. He was as elated 
as I, but I forgot the past long, long siege, while he 
remembered it. 

That swordfish certainly looked a tiger of the sea. 
He had purple fins, long, graceful, sharp; purple 
stripes on a background of dark, mottled bronze 
green; mother-of-pearl tint fading into the green; 

36 




316-POUND SWORDFISH 



THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

and great opal eyes with dark spots in the center. 
The colors came out most vividly and exquisitely, 
the purple blazing, just as the swordfish trembled 
his last and died. He was nine feet two inches long 
and weighed one hundred and eighteen pounds. 

I caught one the next day, one hundred and forty- 
four pounds. Fought another the next day and he 
threw the hook after a half-hour. Caught two the 
following day — one hundred and twenty, and one 
hundred and sixty-six pounds. And then, Captain 
Dan foreshadowing my remarkable finish, exclaimed : 

"I'm lookin' for busted records now!" 

One day about noon the sea was calm except up 
toward the west end, where a wind was whipping 
the water white. Clemente Island towered with its 
steep slopes of wild oats and its blue canons full of 
haze. 

Captain Dan said he had seen a big swordfish 
jump off to the west, and we put on full speed. He 
must have been a mile out and just where the breeze 
ruffled the water. As good luck would have it, we 
came upon the fish on the surface. I consider this 
a fine piece of judgment for Captain Dan, to locate 
him at that distance. He was a monster and fresh 
run from the outside sea. That is to say, his great 
fin and tail were violet, almost pink in color. They 
had not had time to get sunburnt, as those of fish 
earlier arrived at Clemente. 

We made a wide circle round him, to draw the 
flying-fish bait near him. But before we could get 
it near he went down. The same old story, I thought, 

37 



TALES OF FISHES 

with, despair — these floating fish will not bite. We 
circled over the place where he had gone down, 
and I watched my bait rising and falling in the low 
swells. 

Suddenly Captain Dan yelled and I saw a great 
blaze of purple and silver green flashing after my 
bait. It was the swordfish, and he took the bait 
on the run. That was a moment for a fisherman! 
I found it almost impossible to let him have enough 
line. All that I remember about the hooking of him 
was a tremendous shock. His first dash was ir- 
resistibly powerful, and I had a sensation of the 
absurdity of trying to stop a fish like that. Then 
the line began to rise on the surface and to lengthen 
in my sight, and I tried to control my rapture and 
fear enough to be able to see him clearly when he 
leaped. The water split, and up he shot — a huge, 
glittering, savage, beautiful creature, all purple and 
opal in the sunlight. He did not get all the way 
out of the water, but when he dropped back he made 
the water roar. 

Then, tearing off line, he was out of the water in 
similar leaps — seven times more. Captain Dan had 
his work cut out for him as well as I had mine. It 
was utterly impossible to keep a tight line, and when 
I felt the slacking of weight I grew numb and sick 
— thinking he was gone. But he suddenly straight- 
ened the line with a jerk that lifted me, and he 
started inshore. He had about four hundred feet 
of line out, and more slipping out as if the drag was 
not there. Captain Dan headed the boat after him 
at full speed. Then followed a most thrilling race. 
It was over very quickly, but it seemed an age. 

38 



(IUE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

When he stopped and went down he had pulled 
thirteen hundred feet off my reel while we were 
chasing him at full speed. While he sounded I 
got back half of this line. I wish I could give some 
impression of the extraordinary strength and speed 
of this royal purple fish of the sea. He came up 
again, in two more leaps, one of which showed me 
his breadth of back, and then again was performed 
for me the feature of which I had heard so much 
and which has made the swordfish the most famous 
of all fish — he rose two-thirds out of the water, I 
suppose by reason of the enormous power of his tail, 
though it seemed like magic, and then he began to 
walk across the sea in a great circle of white foam, 
wagging his massive head, sword flying, jaws wide, 
dorsal fin savagely erect, like a lion's mane. He was 
magnificent. I have never seen fury so expressed 
or such an unquenchable spirit. Then he dropped 
back with a sudden splash, and went down and down 
and down. 

All swordfish fight differently, and this one adopted 
tuna tactics. He sounded and began to plug away 
and bang the leader with his tail. He would take 
off three hundred feet of line, and then, as he slowed 
up, I, by the labor of Hercules, pulled and pumped 
and wound most of it back on the reel. This kept 
up for an hour — surely the hardest hour's work of 
my life. 

But a swordfish is changeable. That is the beauty 
of his gameness. He left off sounding and came 
up to fight on the surface. In the next hour he 
pulled us from the Fence to Long Point, a distance 
of four miles. 



TALES OF FISHES 

Once off the Point, where the tide rip is strong, 
he began to circle in great, wide circles. Strangely, 
he did not put out to sea. And here, during the 
next hour, I had the finest of experiences I think 
that ever befell a fisherman. I was hooked to a 
monster fighting swordfish; I was wet with sweat, 
and salt water that had dripped from my reel, and 
I was aching in every muscle. The sun was setting 
in banks of gold and silver fog over the west end, 
and the sea was opalescent — vast, shimmering, heav- 
ing, beautiful. And at this sunset moment, or 
hour — for time seemed nothing — a school of giant 
tuna began leaping around us, smashing the water, 
making the flying-fish rise in clouds, like drifting 
bees. I saw a whole flock of flying-fish rise into 
the air with that sunset glow and color in the back- 
ground, and the exquisite beauty of life and move- 
ment was indescribable. Next a bald eagle came 
soaring down, and, swooping along the surface, he 
lowered his talons to pick up a crippled flying-fish. 
And when the hoary-headed bird rose, a golden eagle, 
larger and more powerful, began to contest with 
him for the prey. 

Then the sky darkened and the moon whitened — • 
and my fight went on. I had taken the precaution 
to work for two months at rowing to harden my 
hands for just such a fight as this. Yet my hands 
suffered greatly. A man who is not in the best of 
physical trim, with his hands hard, cannot hope to 
land a big swordfish. 

I was all afternoon at this final test, and all in, 
too, but at last I brought him near enough for Cap- 
tain Dan to grasp the leader. . . . Then there was 

40 



THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

something doing around that boat for a spell! I 
was positive a German torpedo had hit us. But the 
explosion was only the swordfish's tail and Dan's 
voice yelling for another gaff. When Captain Dan 
got the second gaff in him there was another sub- 
marine attack, but the boat did not sink. 

Next came the job of lassoing the monster's tail. 
Here I shone, for I had lassoed mountain-lions with 
Buffalo Jones, and I was efficient and quick. Cap- 
tain Dan and I were unable to haul the fish on board, 
and we had to get out the block and tackle and lift 
the tail on deck, secure that, and then pull up the 
head from the other side. After that I needed some 
kind of tackle to hold me up. 

We were miles from camp, and I was wet and cold 
and exhausted, and the pain in my blistered hands 
was excruciating. But not soon shall I forget that 
ride down the shore with the sea so rippling and 
moon-blanched, and the boom of the surf on the 
rocks, and the peaks of the island standing bold and 
dark against the white stars. 

This swordfish weighed three hundred and six- 
teen pounds on faulty scales at Clemente. He very 
likely weighed much more. He was the largest 
Captain Dan ever saw, up to that time. Al Shade 
guessed his weight at three hundred and sixty. 
The market fishermen, who put in at the little 
harbor the next day, judged him way over three 
hundred, and these men are accurate. The fish 
hung head down for a day and night, lost all the 
water and blood and feed in him, and another day 
later, when landed at Avalon, he had lost consider- 
able. There were fishermen who discredited Cap- 

41 



TALES OF FISHES 

tain Dan and me, who in our enthusiasm claimed 
a record. 

But — that sort of thing is one of the aspects of 
the sport. I was sorry, for Captain Dan's sake. 
The rivalries between boatmen are keen and im- 
portant, and they are fostered by unsportsman-like 
fishermen. And fishermen live among past asso- 
ciations; they grow to believe their performances 
unbeatable and they hate to see a new king crowned. 
This may be human, since we are creatures who 
want always to excel, but it is irritating to the young 
fishermen. As for myself, what did I care how 
much the swordfish weighed? He was huge, mag- 
nificent, beautiful, and game to the end of that four- 
hour battle. Who or what could change that — or 
the memory of those schools of flying-fish in the 
sunset glow — or the giant tuna, smashing the water 
all about me — or the eagles fighting over my head — 
or the beauty of wild and lonely Clemente under its 
silver cloud-banks? 

I went on catching one or two swordfish every 
day, and Captain Dan averred that the day would 
come when we would swamp the boat. These days 
were fruitful of the knowledge of swordfish that I 
had longed to earn. 

They are indeed "queer birds." I learned to 
recognize the sharp vibration of my line when a 
swordfish rapped the bait with his sword. No 
doubt he thought he thus killed his prey. Then 
the strike would come invariably soon after. No 
two swordfish acted or fought alike. I hooked one 
that refused to stand the strain of the line. He 

42 



THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

followed the boat, and was easily gaffed. I hooked 
another, a heavy fish, that did not show for two 
hours. We were sure we had a broadbill, and were 
correspondingly worried. The broadbill swordfish 
is a different proposition. He is larger, fiercer, and 
tireless. He will charge the boat, and nothing but 
the churning propeller will keep him from ramming 
the boat. There were eight broadbill swordfish 
hooked at Avalon during the summer, and not one 
brought to gaff. This is an old story. Only two 
have been caught to date. They are so powerful, 
so resistless, so desperate, and so cunning that it 
seems impossible to catch them. They will cut bait 
after bait off your hook as clean as if it had been 
done with a knife. For that matter, their broad bill 
is a straight, long, powerful two-edged sword. And 
the fish perfectly understands its use. 

This matter of swordfish charging the boat is apt 
to be discredited by fishermen. But it certainly is 
not doubted by the few who know. I have seen two 
swordfish threaten my boat, and one charge it. 
Walker, an Avalon boatman, tells of a prodigious 
battle his angler had with a broadbill giant calcu- 
lated to weigh five hundred pounds. This fight 
lasted eight hours. Many times the swordfish 
charged the boat and lost his nerve. If that pro- 
peller had stopped he would have gone through the 
boat as if it had been paper. After this fish freed 
himself he was so mad that he charged the boat 
repeatedly. Boschen fought a big broadbill for 
eleven hours. And during this fight the swordfish 
sounded to the bottom forty-eight times, and had 
to be pumped up; he led the boat almost around 

43 



TALES OF FISHES 

Catalina Island — twenty-nine miles; and lie had 
gotten out into the channel, headed for Clemente, 
when he broke away. This fish did everything. I 
consider this battle the greatest on record. Only a 
man of enormous strength and endurance could have 
lasted so long — not to speak of the skill and wits 
necessary on the part of both fisherman and boat- 
man. All fishermen fish for the big fish, though it 
is sport to catch any game fish, irrespective of size. 
But let any fisherman who has nerve see and feel 
a big swordfish on his line, and from that moment 
he is obsessed. Why, a tarpon is child's play com- 
pared to holding a fast swordfish. 

It is my great ambition now to catch a broadbill. 
That would completely round out my fishing ex- 
perience. And I shall try. But I doubt that I will 
be so fortunate. It takes a long time. Boschen was 
years catching his fish. Moreover, though it is hard 
to get a broadbill to bite — and harder to hook him 
— it is infinitely harder to do anything with him 
after you do get fast to him. 

A word about Avalon boatmen. They are a fine 
body of men. I have heard them maligned. Cer- 
tainly they have petty rivalries and jealousies, but 
this is not their fault. They fish all the seasons 
around and have been there for years. Boatmen at 
Long Key and other Florida resorts — at Tampico, 
Aransas Pass — are not in the same class with the 
Avalon men. They want to please and to excel, 
and to number you among their patrons for the 
future. And the boats — nowhere are there such 
splendid boats. Captain Danielson's boat had ut- 



THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

terly spoiled me for fishing out of any other. He 
had it built, and the ideas of its construction were a 
product of fifteen years' study. It is thirty-eight 
feet long, and wide, with roomy, shaded cockpit 
and cabin, and comfortable revolving chairs to fish 
from. These chairs have moving sockets into which 
you can jam the butt of your rod; and the backs 
can be removed in a flash. Then you can haul at 
a fish! The boat lies deep, with heavy ballast in 
the stern. It has a keel all the way, and an enor- 
mous rudder. Both are constructed so your line 
can slip under the boat without fouling. It is 
equipped with sail and a powerful engine. Daniel- 
son can turn this boat, going at full speed, in its 
own length! Consider the merit of this when a 
tuna strikes, or a swordfish starts for the open sea. 
How many tarpon, barracuda, amber jack, and tuna 
I have lost on the Atlantic seaboard just because 
the boat could not be turned in time! 

Clemente Island is a mountain of cliffs and caves. 
It must be of volcanic origin, and when the lava 
rose, hot and boiling, great blow-holes formed, and 
hardened to make the caves. It is an exceedingly 
beautiful island. The fishing side is on the north, 
or lee, shore, where the water is very deep right off 
the rocks. There are kelp-beds along the shore, 
and the combination of deep water, kelp, and small 
fish is what holds the swordfish there in August and 
September. I have seen acres of flying-fish in the 
air at once, and great swarms of yellowtail, basking 
on the surface. The color of the water is indigo 
blue, clear as crystal. Always a fascinating thing 

45 



TALES OF FISHES 

for me was to watch the water for new and different 
fish, strange marine creatures, life of some kind. 
And the watching was always rewarded. I have 
been close to schools of devilish blackfish, and I 
have watched great whales play all around me. 
What a spectacle to see a whale roll and dip his 
enormous body and bend and sound, lifting the huge, 
glistening flukes of his tail, wide as a house! I hate 
sharks and have caught many, both little and big. 
When you are watching for swordfish it is no fun 
to have a big shark break for your bait, throw the 
water, get your hook, and lift you from your seat. 
It happened often. But sometimes when I was 
sure it was a shark it was really a swordfish ! I used 
to love to watch the sunfish leap, they are so round 
and glistening and awkward. I could tell one two 
miles away. The blue shark leaps often and he 
always turns clear over. You cannot mistake it. 
Nor can you mistake a swordfish when he breaks, 
even though you only see the splash. He makes 
two great sheets of water rise and fall. Probably 
all these fish leap to shake off the remoras. A 
remora is a parasite, a queer little fish, pale in 
color, because he probably lives inside the gills of 
the fish he preys upon, with the suckers on top of 
his head, arranged in a shield, ribbed like a wash- 
board. This little fish is as mysterious as any 
creature of the sea. He is as swift as lightning. 
He can run over the body of a swordfish so quickly 
you can scarcely follow his movement, and at all 
times he is fast to the swordfish, holding with that 
flat sucker head. Mr. Holder wrote years ago that 
the remora sticks to a fish just to be carried along, 

46 



THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

as a means of travel, but I do not incline to this 
belief. We found many remoras inside the gills of 
swordfish, and their presence there was evidence of 
their blood-sucking tendencies. I used to search 
every swordfish for these remoras, and I would keep 
them in a bucket till we got to our anchorage. A 
school of tame rock-bass there, and tame yellowtail, 
and a few great sea-bass were always waiting for 
us — for our discarded bait or fish of some kind. 
But when I threw in a live remora, how these hungry 
fish did dart away! Life in the ocean is strange, 
complex, ferocious, and wonderful. 

Al Shade keeps the only camp at Clemente. It 
is a clean, comfortable, delightful place. I have 
found no place where sleep is so easy, so sweet, so 
deep. Shade lives a lonely life there ten months 
in the year. And it is no wonder that when a fisher- 
man arrives Al almost kills himself in his good 
humor and kindness and usefulness. Men who live 
lonely lives are always glad to see their fellow- 
men. But he loves Clemente Island. Who would 
not? 

When I think of it many pictures come to mind 
— evening with the sea rolling high and waves curv- 
ing shoreward in great dark ripples, that break and 
spread white and run up the strand. The sky is 
pale blue above, a green sheen low down, with white 
stars blinking. The promontories run down into the 
sea, sheer, black, rugged, bold, mighty. The surf 
is loud and deep, detonating, and the pebbles scream 
as the waves draw them down. Strange to realize 
that surf when on the morrow the sea will be like 
glass — not a wave nor a ripple under the gray fog! 

47 



TALES OF FISHES 

Wild and beautiful Clemente — the island of caves 
and canons and cliffs — lilac and cactus and ice-plant 
and arbor-vitse and ironwood, with the wild goats 
silhouetted dark against the bold sky-line! 

There came that day of all days. I never be- 
lieved Captain Dan, but now I shall never forget. 
The greatest day that ever befell me! I brought 
four swordfish to gaff and whipped another, the 
biggest one of the whole trip, and saw him tear 
away from the hook just at the last — in all, nine 
hours of strenuous hanging on to a rod. 

I caught the first one before six o'clock, as the 
sun was rising red-gold, dazzling, glorious. He 
leaped in the sun eleven times. He weighed one 
hundred and eighty-seven. 

After breakfast we sighted two swordfish on the 
smooth sea. Both charged the bait. I hooked one 
of these and he leaped twenty-three times. He 
weighed one hundred and sixty-eight. 

Then off the east end we saw a big swordfish leap 
five times. We went out toward the open sea. 
But we never got anywhere near him. I had three 
strikes, one after another, when we were speeding 
the boat. Then we shut down and took to slow 
trolling. I saw another swordfish sail for my bait, 
and yelled. He shot off with the bait and his dor- 
sal fin stuck out of the water. I hooked him. He 
leaped thirty-eight times. How the camera did 
snap during this fight! He weighed two hundred 
and ten. . 

I had a fierce strike on the way in. Too fast! 
We lost him. 

48 



THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

"The sea's alive with swordfish!" cried Captain 
Dan. "It's the day!" 

Then I awoke to my opportunity. 

Round the east end, close to the great black 
bluff, where the swells pile up so thunderously, I 
spied the biggest purple fin I had ever seen. This 
fellow came to meet us — took my bait. I hooked 
at him, but did not hurt or scare him. Finally I 
pulled the hook out of him. While I was reeling in 
my line suddenly a huge purple shadow hove in 
sight. It was the swordfish — and certainly one of 
immense size — the hugest yet. 

"He's following the boat!" yelled Captain Dan, 
in great excitement. 

So I saw, but I could not speak or yell. All was 
intense excitement on that boat. I jumped up on 
the stern, holding the bait Captain Dan had put 
on my hook. Then I paused to look. We all 
looked, spellbound. That was a sight of a lifetime. 
There he swam, the monster, a few feet under the 
surface, only a rod back of the boat. I had no calm 
judgment with which to measure his dimensions. 
I only saw that he was tremendous and beautiful. 
His great, yard- wide fins gleamed royal purple. And 
the purple strips crossed his silver sides. He glowed 
in the water, changed color like a chameleon, and 
drifted, floated after us. I thought of my brother 
Reddy — how he would have gloried in that sight! 
I thought of Dilg, of Bob Davis, of Professor Kel- 
logg — other great fishermen, all in a flash. Indeed, 
though I gloated over my fortune, I was not selfish. 
Then I threw in the flying-fish bait. The swordfish 
loomed up, while my heart ceased to beat. There, 

4 49 



TALES OF FISHES 

in plain sight, tie took the bait, as a trout might have 
taken a grasshopper. Slowly he sank. The line be- 
gan to slip off the reel. He ceased to be a bright 
purple mass — grew dim — then vague — and disap- 
peared. 

I sat down, jammed the rod in the socket, and got 
ready. For the life of me I could not steady my legs. 

"What '11 he weigh?" I gasped. 

"O Lord! he looked twice as big as the big one 
you got," replied Dan. 

"Stand by with the cameras!" I said to my com- 
panions, and as they lined up, two on one side and 
one on the other, I began to strike at that fish with 
all my might and main. I must have had at least 
twelve powerful strikes before he began to wake up. 

Then! 

He came up, throwing the water in angry spouts. 
If he did not threaten the boat I was crazy. He 
began an exhibition that dwarfed any other I had 
seen, and it was so swift that I could scarcely fol- 
low him. Yet when I saw the line rise, and then 
the wonderful, long, shiny body, instinct with fury, 
shoot into the air, I yelled the number of the leap, 
and this was the signal for the camera-workers. 
They held the cameras close, without trying to focus, 
facing the fish, and they snapped when I yelled. 
It was all gloriously exciting. I could never de- 
scribe that exhibition. I only know that he leaped 
clear forty-six times, and after a swift, hard hour 
for me he got away. Strangely, I was almost happy 
that he had shaken loose, for he had given such re- 
markable opportunities for pictures. 

Captain Dan threw the wheel hard over and the 

50 



THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

boat turned. The swordfish, tired out and uncon- 
scious of freedom, was floating near the surface, a 
drifting blaze of purple. The boat sheered close to 
him. Captain Dan reached over with a gaff — and 
all but gaffed that swordfish before he sank too 
deep. Captain Dan was white with disappoint- 
ment. That more than anything showed me his 
earnestness, what it all meant to him. 

On the way in, for we had been led out a couple 
of miles, I saw a blue streak after my bait, and I 
was ready before the swordfish got to it. He struck 
viciously and I dared not let him have much line. 
When I hooked him he started out to sea at a clip 
that smoked the line off my reel. Captain Dan got 
the boat turned before the swordfish began to leap. 
Then it was almost a straightaway race. This fel- 
low was a greyhound leaper. He did not churn 
the water, nor dash to and fro on the surface, but 
kept steadily leaping ahead. He cleared the water 
thirty-nine times before he gave up leaping. Then 
he sounded. The line went slack. I thought he 
was gone. Suddenly he showed again, in a white 
splash, and he was not half as far away as when he 
went down. Then I felt the pull on the line. It 
was heavy, for he had left a great bag in it. I en- 
deavored to recover line, but it came in very slowly. 
The swordfish then threshed on the surface so that 
we could hear the water crack. But he did not leap 
again. He had gone mad with rage. He seemed 
to have no sense of direction. He went down again, 
only to rush up, still closer to us. Then it was 
plain he saw the nature of his foe. Splitting water 
like a swift motor-boat, he charged us. 

51 



TALES OF FISHES 

I had a cold sensation, but was too excited to be 
afraid. Almost I forgot to reel in. 

"He's after us!" I said, grimly. 

Captain Dan started the boat ahead fast. The 
swordfish got out of line with the boat. But he 
was close, and he made me think of the charging 
rhinoceros Dugmore photographed. And then I 
yelled for the cameras to be snapped. They all 
clicked — and then, when the swordfish shot close 
behind us, presenting the most magnificent picture, 
no one was ready! 

As he passed I thought I saw the line round his 
body. Then he sounded and began to plug. He 
towed us six miles out to sea. I could not stop him. 
I had begun to weaken. My hands were sights. 
My back hurt. But I stayed with him. He felt 
like a log and I could not recover line. Captain 
Dan said it was because I was almost all in, but I 
did not think that. Presently this swordfish turned 
inshore and towed us back the six miles. By this 
time it was late and I was all in. But the sword- 
fish did not seem nearer the boat. I got mad and 
found some reserve strength. I simply had to bring 
him to gaff. I pulled and pumped and wound 
until I was blind and could scarcely feel. My old 
blisters opened and bled. My left arm was dead. 
I seemed to have no more strength than a kitten. 
I could not lead the fish nor turn him. I had to 
drag and drag, inch by inch. It was agonizing. 
But finally I was encouraged by sight of him, a long, 
fine, game fellow. A hundred times I got the end 
of the double line near the leader in sight, only to 
lose it. 

52 



THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 

Seven o'clock passed. I had fought this sword- 
fish nearly three hours. I could not last much 
longer. I rested a little, holding hard, and then 
began a last and desperate effort to bring him to 
gaff. I was absolutely dripping with sweat, and 
red flashes passed before my eyes, and queer dots. 
The last supreme pull — all I had left — brought the 
end of the leader to Captain Dan's outstretched 
hand. 

The swordfish came in broadside. In the clear 
water we saw him plainly, beautifully striped tiger 
that he was! And we all saw that he had not been 
hooked. He had been lassoed. In some way the 
leader had looped around him with the hook catching 
under the wire. No wonder it had nearly killed me 
to bring him to the boat, and surely I never would 
have succeeded had it not been for the record Cap- 
tain Dan coveted. That was the strangest feature 
in all my wonderful Clemente experience — to see 
that superb swordfish looped in a noose of my long 
leader. He was without a scratch. It may serve 
to give some faint idea of the bewildering possibili- 
ties in the pursuit of this royal purple game of the 
Pacific. 



IV 

TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH 

MY first day at Avalon, 1916, was one likely to 
be memorable among my fishing experiences. 

The weather (August 2d) was delightful — smooth, 
rippling sea, no wind, clear sky and warm. The 
Sierra Nevada Mountains shone dark above the 
horizon. 

A little before noon we passed my friend Lone 
Angler, who hailed us and said there was a big 
broadbill swordfish off in the steamer-course. We 
steered off in that direction. 

There were sunfish and sharks showing all around. 
Once I saw a whale. The sea was glassy, with a 
long, heaving swell. Birds were plentiful in scat- 
tered groups. 

We ran across a shark of small size and tried to 
get him to take a bait. He refused. A little later 
Captain Dan espied a fin, and upon running up we 
discovered the huge, brown, leathery tail and dorsal 
of a broadbill swordfish. 

Captain Dan advised a long line out so that we 
could circle the fish from a distance and not scare 
him. I do not remember any unusual excitement. 
I was curious and interested. Remembering all I 

54 



TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH 

had heard about these fish, I did not anticipate 
getting a strike from him. 

We circled him and drew the flying-fish bait so 
that he would swim near it. As it was, I had to 
reel in some. Presently we had the bait some 
twenty yards ahead of him. Then Captain Dan 
slowed down. The broadbill wiggled his tail and 
slid out of sight. Dan said he was going for my 
bait. But I did not believe so. Several moments 
passed. I had given up any little hope I might 
have had when I received a quick, strong, vibrating 
strike — different from any I had ever experienced. 
I suppose the strangeness was due to the shock he 
gave my line when he struck the bait with his sword. 
The line paid out unsteadily and slowly. I looked 
at Dan and he looked at me. Neither of us was 
excited nor particularly elated. I guess I did not 
realize what was actually going on. 

I let him have about one hundred and fifty feet 
of line. 

When I sat down to jam the rod-butt in the 
socket I had awakened to possibilities. Throwing 
on the drag and winding in until my line was taut, 
I struck hard — four times. He made impossible any 
more attempts at this by starting off on a heavy, 
irresistible rush. But he was not fast, or so it seemed 
to me. He did not get more than four hundred feet 
of line before we ran up on him. Presently he 
came to the surface to thresh around. He did not 
appear scared or angry. Probably he was annoyed 
at the pricking of the hook. But he kept moving, 
sometimes on the surface and sometimes beneath. 
I did not fight him hard, preferring to let him pull 

55 



TALES OF FISHES 

out the line, and then when he rested I worked on 
him to recover it. My idea was to keep a perpetual 
strain upon him. 

I do not think I had even a hope of bringing this 
fish to the boat. 

It was twelve o'clock exactly when I hooked him, 
and a quarter of an hour sped by. My first big thrill 
came when he leaped. This was a surprise. He 
was fooling round, and then, all of a sudden, he 
broke water clear. It was an awkward, ponderous 
action, and looked as if he had come up backward, 
like a bucking bronco. His size and his long, 
sinister sword amazed me and frightened me. It 
gave me a cold sensation to realize I was hooked to 
a huge, dangerous fish. But that in itself was a 
new kind of thrill. No boatman fears a Marlin as 
he does the true broadbill swordfish. 

My second thrill came when the fish lunged on 
the surface in a red foam. If I had hooked him so 
he bled freely there was a chance to land him! 
This approach to encouragement, however, was 
short-lived. He went down, and if I had been 
hooked to a submarine I could scarcely have felt 
more helpless. He sounded about five hundred feet 
and then sulked. I had the pleasant task of pump- 
ing him up. This brought the sweat out upon me 
and loosened me up. I began to fight him harder. 
And it seemed that as I increased the strain he grew 
stronger and a little more active. Still there was 
not any difference in his tactics. I began to get a 
conception of the vitality and endurance of a broad- 
bill in contrast with the speed and savageness of 
his brother fish, the Marlin, or roundbill. 

56 



TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH 

At two o'clock matters were about the same. I 
was not tired, but certainly the fish was not tired, 
either. He came to the surface just about as much 
as he sounded. I had no difficulty at all in getting 
back the line he took, at least all save a hundred 
feet or so. When I tried to lead him or lift him — 
then I got his point of view. He would not budge 
an inch. There seemed nothing to do but let him 
work on the drag, and when he had pulled out a 
few hundred feet of line we ran up on him and I 
reeled in the line. Now and then I put all the 
strain I could on the rod and worked him that way. 

At three o'clock I began to get tired. My hands 
hurt. And I concluded I had been rather unlucky 
to start on a broadbili at the very beginning. 

From that time he showed less frequently, and, 
if anything, he grew slower and heavier. I felt no 
more rushes. And along about this time I found 
I could lead him somewhat. This made me begin 
to work hard. Yet, notwithstanding, I had no hope 
of capturing the fish. It was only experience. 

Captain Dan kept saying: "Well, you wanted to 
hook up with a broadbili! Now how do you like 
it?" He had no idea I would ever land him. Sev- 
eral times I asked him to give an opinion as to the 
size of the swordfish, but he would not venture that 
until he had gotten a good close view of him. 

At four O'clock I made the alarming discovery 
that the great B-Ocean reel was freezing, just as my 
other one had frozen on my first swordfish the year 
previous. Captain Dan used language. He threw 
up his hands. He gave up. But I did not. 

"Dan, see here," I said. "We'll run up on him, 

57 



TALES OF FISHES 

throw off a lot of slack line, then cut it and tie it 
to another reel!" 

"We might do that. But it '11 disqualify the 
fish," he replied. 

Captain Dan, like all the boatmen at Avalon, has 
fixed ideas about the Tuna Club and its records and 
requirements. It is all right, I suppose, for a club 
to have rules, and not count or credit an angler who 
breaks a rod or is driven to the expedient I had pro- 
posed. But I do not fish for clubs or records. I 
fish for the fun, the excitement, the thrill of the 
game, and I would rather let my fish go than not. 
So I said: 

"We'll certainly lose the fish if we don't change 
reels. I am using the regulation tackle, and to my 
mind the more tackle we use, provided we land the 
fish, the more credit is due us. It is not an easy 
matter to change reels or lines or rods with a big 
fish working all the time." 

Captain Dan acquiesced, but told me to try fight- 
ing him a while with the light drag and the thumb- 
brake. So far only the heavy drag had frozen. I 
tried Dan's idea, to my exceeding discomfort; and 
the result was that the swordfish drew far away 
from us. Presently the reel froze solid. The handle 
would not turn. But with the drag off the spool 
ran free. 

Then we ran away from the fish, circling and let- 
ting out slack line. When we came to the end of 
the line we turned back a little, and with a big slack 
we took the risk of cutting the line and tying it on 
the other reel. We had just got this done when the 
line straightened tight! I wound in about twelve 

58 



TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH 

hundred feet of line and was tired and wet when I 
had gotten in all I could pull. This brought us to 
within a couple of hundred feet of our quarry. 
Also it brought us to five o'clock. Five hours! . . . 
I began to have queer sensations — aches, pains, 
tremblings, saggings. Likewise misgivings! 

About this period I determined to see how close 
to the boat I could pull him. I worked. The word 
"worked" is not readily understood until a man 
has tried to pull a big broadbill close to the boat. 
I pulled until I saw stars and my bones cracked. 
Then there was another crack. The rod broke at 
the reel seat! And the reel seat was bent. Fortu- 
nately the line could still pay out. And I held the 
tip while Dan pried and hammered the reel off the 
broken butt on to another one. Then he put the 
tip in that butt, and once more I had to reel in 
what seemed miles and miles of line. 

Five thirty! It seemed around the end of the 
world for me. We had drifted into a tide-rip about 
five miles east of Avalon, and in this rough water 
I had a terrible time trying to hold my fish. When 
I discovered that I could hold him — and therefore 
that he was playing out — then there burst upon me 
the dazzling hope of actually bringing him to gaff. 
It is something to fight a fish for more than five 
hours without one single hope of his capture. I had 
done that. And now, suddenly, to be fired with 
hope gave me new strength and spirit to work. The 
pain in my hands was excruciating. I was burning 
all over; wet and slippery, and aching in every 
muscle. These next few minutes seemed longer than 
all the hours. I found that to put the old strain on 

59 



TALES OF FISHES 

the rod made me blind with pain. There was no 
fun, no excitement, no thrill now. As I labored I 
could not help marveling at the strange, imbecile 
pursuits of mankind. Here I was in an agony, 
absolutely useless. Why did I keep it up? I could 
not give up, and I concluded I was crazy. 

I conceived the most unreasonable hatred for that 
poor swordfish that had done nothing to me and that 
certainly would have been justified in ramming the 
boat. 

To my despair the fish sounded deep, going down 
and down, Captain Dan watched the line. Finally 
it ceased to pay out. 

"Pump him up!" said Dan. 

This was funny. It was about as funny as death. 

I rested awhile and meditated upon the weakness 
of the flesh. The thing most desirable and beautiful 
in all the Universe was rest. It was so sweet to think 
of that I was hard put to it to keep from tossing the 
rod overboard. There was something so desperately 
trying and painful in this fight with a broadbill. 
At last I drew a deep, long breath, and, with a pang 
in my breast and little stings all over me, I began 
to lift on him. He was at the bottom of the ocean. 
He was just as unattainable as the bottom of the 
ocean. But there are ethics of a sportsman! 

Inch by inch and foot by foot I pumped up this 
live and dragging weight. I sweat, I panted, I 
whistled, I bled — and my arms were dead, and 
my hands raw and my heart seemed about to 
burst. 

Suddenly Captain Dan electrified me. 

"There's the end of the double line!" he yelled. 

60 



TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH 

Unbelievable as it was, there the knot hi the end 
of the short six feet of double line showed at the 
surface. I pumped and I reeled inch by inch. 

A long dark object showed indistinctly, wavered 
as the swells rose, then showed again. As I strained 
at the rod so I strained my eyes. 

"I see the leader!" yelled Dan, in great excite- 
ment. 

I saw it, too, and I spent the last ounce of strength 
left in me. Up and up came the long, dark, vague 
object. 

"You've got him licked!" exclaimed Dan. "Not 
a wag left in him!" 

It did seem so. And that bewildering instant saw 
the birth of assurance in me. I was going to get 
him! That was a grand instant for a fisherman. 
I could have lifted anything then. 

The swordfish became clear to my gaze. He was 
a devilish-looking monster, two feet thick across the 
back, twelve feet long over all, and he would have 
weighed at the least over four hundred pounds. 
And I had beaten him! That was there to be seen. 
He had none of the beauty and color of the round- 
bill swordfish. He was dark, almost black, with 
huge dorsal and tail, and a wicked broad sword fully 
four feet long. What terrified me was his enormous 
size and the deadly look of him. I expected to see 
him rush at the boat. 

Watching him thus, I reveled in my wonderful 
luck. Up to this date there had been only three of 
these rare fish caught in twenty-five years of Avalon 
fishing. And this one was far larger than those 
that had been taken. 

61 



TALES OF FISHES 

"Lift him! Closer!" called Captain Dan. "In 
two minutes I'll have a gaff in him!" 

I made a last effort. Dan reached for the leader. 

Then the hook tore out. 

My swordfish, without a movement of tail or fin, 
slowly sank — to vanish in the blue water. 

After resting my blistered hands for three days, 
which time was scarcely long enough to heal them, 
I could not resist the call of the sea. 

We went off Seal Rocks and trolled about five 
miles out. We met a sand-dabber who said he had 
seen a big broadbill back a ways. So we turned 
round. After a while I saw a big, vicious splash 
half a mile east, and we made for it. Then I soon 
espied the fish. 

We worked around him awhile, but he would 
not take a barracuda or a flying-fish. 

It was hard to keep track of him, on account of 
rough water. Soon he went down. 

Then a little later I saw what Dan called a Marlin. 
He had big flippers, wide apart. I took him for a 
broadbill. 

We circled him, and before he saw a bait he leaped 
twice, coming about half out, with belly toward us. 
He looked huge, but just how big it was impossible 
to say. 

After a while he came up, and we circled him. As 
the bait drifted round before him — twenty yards 
or more off — he gave that little wiggle of the tail 
sickle, and went under. I waited. I had given 
up hope when I felt him hit the bait. Then he ran 
off, pretty fast. I let him have a long; line. Then 

62 



TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH 

I sat down and struck him. He surged off, and we 
all got ready to watch him leap. But he did not 
show. 

He swam off, sounded, came up, rolled around, 
went down again. But we did not get a look at 
him. He fought like any other heavy swordfish. 

In one and one-half hours I pulled him close to 
the boat, and we all saw him. But I did not get 
a good look at him as he wove to and fro behind the 
boat. 

Then he sounded. 

I began to work on him, and worked harder. He 
seemed to get stronger all the time. 

"He feels like a broadbill, I tell you," I said to 
Captain Dan. 

Dan shook his head, yet all the same he looked 
dubious. 

Then began a slow, persistent, hard battle between 
me and the fish, the severity of which I did not 
realize at the time. In hours like those time has 
wings. My hands grew hot. They itched., and I 
wanted to remove the wet gloves. But I did not, 
and sought to keep my mind off what had been half- 
healed blisters. Neither the fish nor I made any 
new moves, it all being plug on his part and give 
and take on mine. Slowly and doggedly he worked 
out toward the sea, and while the hours passed, just 
as persistently he circled back. 

Captain Dan came to stand beside me, earnestly 
watching the rod bend and the fine stretch. He 
shook his head. 

"That's a big Marlin and you've got him foul- 
hooked," he asserted. This statement was made at 

63 



TALES OF FISHES 

the end of three hours and more. I did not agree. 
Dan and I often had arguments. He always tackled 
me when I was in some such situation as this — for 
then, of course, he had the best of it. My brother 
Rome was in the boat that day, an intensely inter- 
ested observer. He had not as yet hooked a sword- 
fish. 

"It's a German submarine!" he declared. 

My brother's wife and the other ladies with us on 
board were inclined to favor my side; at least they 
were sorry for the fish and said he must be very big. 

"Dan, I could tell a foul-hooked fish," I asserted, 
positively. "This fellow is too alive — too limber. 
He doesn't sag like a dead weight." 

"Well, if he's not foul-hooked, then you're all 
in," replied the captain. 

Cheerful acquiescence is a desirable trait in any 
one, especially an angler who aspires to things, but 
that was left out in the ordering of my complex 
disposition. However, to get angry makes a man 
fight harder, and so it was with me. 

At the end of five hours Dan suggested putting 
the harness on me. This contrivance, by the way, 
is a thing of straps and buckles, and its use is to 
fit over an angler's shoulders and to snap on the 
rod. It helps him lift the fish, puts his shoulders 
more into play, rests his arms. But I had never 
worn one. I was afraid of it. 

"Suppose he pulls me overboard, with that on!" 
I exclaimed. "He'll drown me!" 

"We'll hold on to you," replied Dan, cheerily, as 
he strapped it around me. 

Later it turned out that I had exactly the right 

64 



TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH 

view concerning this harness, for Dustin Farnum was 
nearly pulled overboard and — But I have not space 
for that story here. My brother Rome wants to 
write that story, anyhow, because it is so funny, he 
says. 

On the other hand, the fact soon manifested it- 
self to me that I could lift a great deal more with 
said harness to help. The big fish began to come 
nearer and also he began to get mad. Here I for- 
got the pain in my hands. I grew enthusiastic. 
And foolishly I bragged. Then I lifted so hard that 
I cracked the great Conroy rod. 

Dan threw up his hands. He quit, same as he 
quit the first day out, when I hooked the broadbill 
and the reel froze. 

"Disqualified fish, even if you ketch him — which 
you won't," he said, dejectedly. 

"Crack goes thirty-five dollars!" exclaimed my 
brother. "Sure is funny, brother, how you can 
decimate good money into the general atmosphere!" 

If there really is anything fine in the fighting of 
a big fish, which theory I have begun to doubt, cer- 
tainly Captain Dan and Brother R. C. did not 
know it. 

Remarks were forthcoming from me, I am ashamed 
to state, that should not have been. Then I got 
Dan to tie splints on the rod, after which I fought 
my quarry some more. The splints broke. Dan 
had to bind the cracked rod with heavy pieces of 
wood and they added considerable weight to what 
had before felt like a ton. 

The fish had been hooked at eleven o'clock and 
it was now five. We had drifted or been pulled into 
5 65 



TALES OF FISHES 

the main channel, where strong currents and a 
choppy sea made the matter a pretty serious and 
uncomfortable one. Here I expended all I had left 
in a short and furious struggle to bring the fish up, 
if not to gaff, at least so we could see what he looked 
like. How strange and unfathomable a feeling this 
mystery of him gave rise to ! If I could only see him 
once, then he could get away and welcome. Captain 
Dan, in anticipation of a need of much elbow room 
in that cockpit, ordered my brother and the ladies 
to go into the cabin or up on top. And they all 
scrambled up and lay flat on the deck-roof, with 
their heads over, watching me. They had to hold 
on some, too. In fact, they were having the time 
of their lives. 

My supreme effort brought the fish within the 
hundredth foot length of line — then my hands and 
my back refused any more. 

"Dan, here's the great chance you've always hank- 
ered for!" I said. "Now let's see you pull him 
right in!" 

And I passed him the rod and got up. Dan took 
it with the pleased expression of a child suddenly 
and wonderfully come into possession of a long- 
unattainable toy. Captain Dan was going to pull 
that fish right up to the boat. He was! Now Dan 
is big — he weighs two hundred; he has arms and 
hands like the limbs of a Vulcan. Perhaps Dan 
had every reason to believe he would pull the fish 
right up to the boat. But somehow I knew that he 
would not. 

My fish, perhaps feeling a new and different and 
mightier hand at the rod, showed how he liked it by 

66 



TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH 

a magnificent rush — the greatest of the whole fight 
— and he took about five hundred feet of line. 

Dan's expression changed as if by magic. 

"Steer the boat! Port! Port!" he yelled. 

Probably I could not run a boat right with per- 
fectly fresh and well hands, and with my lacerated 
and stinging ones I surely made a mess of it. This 
brought language from my boatman — well, to say 
the least, quite disrespectable. Fortunately, how- 
ever, I got the boat around and we ran down on the 
fish. Dan, working with long, powerful sweeps of 
the rod, got the line back and the fish close. The 
game began to look great to me. All along I had 
guessed this fish to be a wonder; and now I knew it. 

Hauling him close that way angered him. He 
made another rush, long and savage. The line 
smoked off that reel. Dan's expression was one of 
utmost gratification to me. A boatman at last cor- 
nered — tied up to a whale of a fish ! 

Somewhere out there a couple of hundred yards 
the big fish came up and roared on the surface. I 
saw only circling wake and waves like those behind 
a speedy motor-boat. But Dan let out a strange 
shout, and up above the girls screamed, and brother 
Rome yelled murder or something. I gathered that 
he had a camera. 

"Steady up there!'" I called out. "If you fall 
overboard it's good night! . . . For we want this 
fish!" 

I had all I could do. Dan would order me to 
steer this way and that — to throw out the clutch — 
to throw it in. Still I was able to keep track of 
events. This fish made nineteen rushes in the suc- 

67 



TALES OF FISHES 

ceeding half-hour. Never for an instant did Cap- 
tain Dan let up. Assuredly during that time he 
spent more force on the fish than I had in six hours. 

The sea was bad, the boat was rolling, the cock- 
pit was inches deep under water many a time. I 
was hard put to it to stay at my post; and what 
saved the watchers above could not be explained 
by me. 

"Mebbe I can hold him now — a little," called 
Dan once, as he got the hundred-foot mark over the 
reel. "Strap the harness on me!" 

I fastened the straps round Dan's broad shoul- 
ders. His shirt was as wet as if he had fallen over- 
board. Maybe some of that wet was spray. His 
face was purple, his big arms bulging, and he whistled 
as he breathed. 

"Good-by, Dan. This will be a fitting end for 
a boatman," I said, cheerfully, as I dove back to 
the wheel. 

At six o'clock our fish was going strong and Dan 
was tiring fast. He had, of course, worked too 
desperately hard. 

Meanwhile the sun sank and the sea went down. 
All the west was gold and red, with the towers of 
Church Rock spiring the horizon. A flock of gulls 
were circling low, perhaps over a school of tuna. 
The white cottages of Avalon looked mere specks 
on the dark island. 

Captain Dan had the swordfish within a hundred 
feet of the boat and was able to hold him. This 
seemed hopeful. It looked now just a matter of 
a little more time. But Dan needed a rest. 

I suggested that my brother come down and take 




FOUR MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAT 



TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH 

a hand in the final round, which I frankly confessed 
was liable to be hell. 

"Not on your life!" was the prompt reply. "I 
want to begin on a little swordfish! . . . Why, that — 
that fish hasn't waked up yet!" 

And I was bound to confess there seemed to me 
to be a good deal of sense in what he said. 

"Dan, I'll take the rod — rest you a bit — so you 
can finish him," I offered. 

The half-hour Dan recorded as my further work 
on this fish will always be a dark and poignant blank 
in my fishing experience. When it was over twi- 
light had come and the fish was rolling and circling 
perhaps fifty yards from the boat. 

Here Dan took the rod again, and with the har- 
ness on and fresh gloves went at the fish in grim 
determination. 

Suddenly the moon sailed out from behind a fog- 
bank and the sea was transformed. It was as 
beautiful as it was lucky for us. 

By Herculean effort Dan brought the swordfish 
close. If any angler doubts the strength of a twenty- 
four thread line his experience is still young. That 
line was a rope, yet it sang like a banjo string. 

Leaning over the side, with two pairs of gloves 
on, I caught the double line, and as I pulled and Dan 
reeled the fish came up nearer. But I could not 
see him. Then I reached the leader and held on as 
for dear life. 

"I've got the leader!" I yelled. "Hurry, Dan!" 

Dan dropped the rod and reached for his gaff. 
But he had neglected to unhook the rod from the 
harness, and as the fish lunged and tore the leader 

69 



TALES OF FISHES 

away from me there came near to being disaster. 
However, Dan got straightened out and anchored 
in the chair and began to haul away again. It 
appeared we had the fish almost done, but he was 
so big that a mere movement of his tail irresistibly 
drew out the line. 

Then the tip of the rod broke off short just even 
with the splints and it slid down the line out of sight. 
Dan lowered the rod so most of the strain would 
come on the reel, and now he held like grim death. 

"Dan, if we don't make any more mistakes we'll 
get that fish!" I declared. 

The sea was almost calm now, and moon-blanched 
so that we could plainly see the line. Despite Dan's 
efforts, the swordfish slowly ran off a hundred feet 
more of line. Dan groaned. But I yelled with 
sheer exultation. For, standing up on the gunwale, 
I saw the swordfish. He had come up. He was 
phosphorescent — a long gleam of silver — and he 
rolled in the unmistakable manner of a fish nearly 
beaten. 

Suddenly he headed for the boat. It was a strange 
motion. I was surprised — then frightened. Dan 
reeled in rapidly. The streak of white gleamed 
closer and closer. It was like white fire — a long, 
savage, pointed shape. 

"Look! Look!" I yelled to those above. "Don't 
miss it! . . . Oh, great!" 

"He's charging the boat!" hoarsely shouted Dan. 

"He's all in!" yelled my brother. 

I jumped into the cockpit and leaned over the 
gunwale beside the rod. Then I grasped the line, 
letting it slip through my hands. Dan wound in 

70 



TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH 

with fierce energy. I felt the end of the double 
line go by me, and at this I let out another shout 
to warn Dan. Then I had the end of the leader — 
a good strong grip — and, looking down, I saw the 
clear silver outline of the hugest fish I had ever 
seen short of shark or whale. He made a beautiful, 
wild, frightful sight. He rolled on his back. Round- 
bill or broadbill, he had an enormous length of sword. 

"Come, Dan — we've got him!" I panted. 

Dan could not, dare not get up then. 

The situation was perilous. I saw how Dan 
clutched the reel, with his big thumbs biting into 
the line. I did my best. My sight failed me for 
an instant. But the fish pulled the leader through 
my hands. My brother leaped down to help — alas, 
too late ! 

"Let go, Dan! Give him line!" 

But Dan was past that. Afterward he said his 
grip was locked. He held, and not another foot did 
the swordfish get. Again I leaned over the gun- 
wale. I saw him — a monster — pale, wavering. His 
tail had an enormous spread. I could no longer see 
his sword. Almost he was ready to give up. 

Then the double line snapped. I fell back in the 
boat and Dan fell back in the chair. 

Nine hours! 



V 



SAILFISH — THE ATLANTIC BROTHER TO THE PACIFIC 
SWORDFISH 

IN the winter of 1916 I persuaded Captain Sam 
Johnson, otherwise famous as Horse-mackerel 
Sam, of Seabright, New Jersey, to go to Long Key 
with me and see if the two of us as a team could 
not outwit those illusive and strange sailfish of the 
Gulf Stream. 

Sam and I have had many adventures going down 
to sea. At Seabright we used to launch a Seabright 
skiff in the gray gloom of early morning and shoot 
the surf, and return shoreward in the afternoon to 
ride a great swell clear till it broke on the sand. 
When I think of Sam I think of tuna — those tor- 
pedoes of the ocean. I have caught many tuna with 
Sam, and hooked big ones, but these giants are still 
roving the blue deeps. Once I hooked a tuna off 
Sandy Hook, out in the channel, and as I was play- 
ing him the Lusitania bore down the channel. Like 
a mountain she loomed over us. I felt like an atom 
looking up and up. Passengers waved down to us 
as the tuna bent my rod. The great ship passed 
on in a seething roar — passed on to her tragic fate. 
We rode the heavy swells she lifted — and my tuna 
got away. 

72 



SAILFISH 

Sam Johnson is from Norway. His ancestors 
lived by fishing. Sam knows and loves the sea. 
He has been a sailor before the mast, but he is more 
fisherman than sailor. He is a stalwart man, with 
an iron, stern, weather-beaten face and keen blue 
eyes, and he has an arm like the branch of an oak. 
For many years he has been a market fisherman at 
Seabright, where on off days he pursued the horse- 
mackerel for the fun of it, and which earned him 
his name. Better than any man I ever met Sam 
knows the sea; he knows fish, he knows boats and 
engines. And I have reached a time in my experi- 
ence of fishing where I want that kind of a boatman. 

Sam and I went after sailfish at Long Key and 
we got them. But I do not consider the experience 
conclusive. If it had not been for my hard-earned 
knowledge of the Pacific swordfish, and for Sam's 
keenness on the sea, we would not have been so for- 
tunate. We established the record; but, what is 
more important, we showed what magnificent sport 
is possible. This advent added much tp the at- 
tractiveness of Long Key for me. And Long Key 
was attractive enough before. 

Sailfish had been caught occasionally at Long 
Key, during every season. But I am inclined to 
believe that, in most instances, the capture of sail- 
fish had been accident — mere fisherman's luck. 
Anglers have fished along the reef and inside, troll- 
ing with heavy tackle for anything that might 
strike, and once in a while a sailfish has somehow 
hooked himself. Mr. Schutt tells of hooking one 
on a Wilson spoon, and I know of another angler 

73 



TALES OF FISHES 

who had this happen. I know of one gentleman 
who told me he hooked a fish that he supposed was 
a barracuda, and while he was fighting this supposed 
barracuda he was interested in the leaping of a 
sailfish near his boat. His boatman importuned 
him to hurry in the barracuda so there would be a 
chance to go after the leaping sailfish. But it turned 
out that the sailfish was on his hook. Another 
angler went out with heavy rod, the great B-Ocean 
reel, and two big hooks (which is an outfit suitable 
only for large tuna or swordfish), and this fellow 
hooked a sailfish which had no chance and was dead 
in less than ten minutes. A party of anglers were 
out on the reef, fishing for anything, and they de- 
cided to take a turn outside where I had been spend- 
ing days after sailfish. Scarcely had these men left 
the reef when five sailfish loomed up and all of them, 
with that perversity and capriciousness which makes 
fish so incomprehensible, tried to climb on board the 
boat. One, a heavy fish, did succeed in hooking 
himself and getting aboard. I could multiply events 
of this nature, but this is enough to illustrate my 
point — that there is a vast difference between several 
fishermen out of thousands bringing in several sail- 
fish in one season and one fisherman deliberately 
going after sailfish with light tackle and eventually 
getting them. 

It is not easy. On the contrary, it is extremely 
hard. It takes infinite patience, and very much has 
to be learned that can be learned only by experi- 
ence. But it is magnificent sport and worth any 
effort. It makes tarpon-fishing tame by comparison. 
Tarpon-fishing is easy. Anybody can catch a tar- 

74 



SAILFISH 

pon by going after him. But not every fisherman 
can catch a sailfish. One fisherman out of a hundred 
will get his sailfish, but only one out of a thousand 
will experience the wonder and thrill and beauty 
of the sport. 

Sailfishing is really swordfishing, and herein lies 
the secret of my success at Long Key. I am not 
satisfied that the sailfish I caught were all Marlin 
and brothers to the Pacific Marlin. The Atlantic 
fish are very much smaller than those of the Pacific, 
and are differently marked and built. Yet they are 
near enough alike to be brothers. 

There are three species that I know of in southern 
waters. The Histiophorus > the sailfish about which 
I am writing and of which descriptions follow. There 
is another species, Tetrapturus albidus, that is not 
uncommon in the Gulf Stream. It is my impression 
that this species is larger. The Indians, with whom 
I fished in the Caribbean, tell of a great swordfish — 
in Spanish the Aguja de casta, and this species must 
be related to Xiphias, the magnificent flatbilled 
swordfish of the Atlantic and Pacific. 

The morning of my greatest day with sailfish I 
was out in the Gulf Stream, seven miles offshore, 
before the other fishermen had gotten out of bed. 
We saw the sun rise ruddy and bright out of the 
eastern sea, and we saw sailfish leap as if to welcome 
the rising of the lord of day. A dark, glancing ripple 
wavered over the water; there was just enough swell 
to make seeing fish easy. 

I was using a rod that weighed nine ounces over 
all, and twelve hundred feet of fifteen-thread line. 

75 



TALES OF FISHES 

I was not satisfied then that the regular light outfit 
of the Tuna Club, such as I used at Avalon, would 
do for sailfish. No. 9 breaks of its own weight. 
And I have had a sailfish run off three hundred yards 
of line and jump all the time he was doing it. Be- 
sides, nobody knows how large these sailfish grow. 
I had hold of one that would certainly have broken 
my line if he had not thrown the hook. 

On this memorable day I had scarcely trolled half 
a mile out into the Stream before I felt that inex- 
plicable rap at my bait which swordfish and sailfish 
make with their bills. I jumped up and got ready. 
I saw a long bronze shape back of my bait. Then 
I saw and felt him take hold. He certainly did not 
encounter the slightest resistance in running out 
my line. He swam off slowly. I never had Sam 
throw out the clutch and stop the boat until after 
I had hooked the fish. I wanted the boat to keep 
moving, so if I did get a chance to strike at a fish 
it would be with a tight line. These sailfish are 
wary and this procedure is difficult. If the fish had 
run off swiftly I would have struck sooner. Every- 
thing depends on how he takes the bait. This fellow 
took fifty feet of line before I hooked him. 

He came up at once, and with two-thirds of his 
body out of the water he began to skitter toward us. 
He looked silver and bronze in the morning light. 
There was excitement on board. Sam threw out 
the clutch. My companions dove for the cameras, 
and we all yelled. The sailfish came skittering tow- 
ard us. It was a spectacular and thrilling sight. 
He was not powerful enough to rise clear on his tail 
and do the famous trick of the Pacific swordfish — 

76 



SAILFISH 

"walking on the water." But he gave a mighty good 
imitation. Then before the cameras got in a snap 
he went down. And he ran, to come up far astern 
and begin to leap. I threw off the drag and yelled, 
"Go!" 

This was pleasant for Sam, who kept repeating, 
"Look at him yump!" 

The sailfish evidently wanted to pose for pictures, 
for he gave a wonderful exhibition of high and lofty 
tumbling, with the result, of course, that he quickly 
exhausted himself. Then came a short period dur- 
ing which he sounded and I slowly worked him 
closer. Presently he swam toward the boat — the 
old swordfish trick. I never liked it, but with the 
sailfish I at least was not nervous about him at- 
tacking the boat. Let me add here that this free- 
dom from dread — which is never absent during the 
fighting of a big swordfish — is one of the features so 
attractive in sailfishing. Besides, fish that have 
been hooked for any length of time, if they are going 
to shake or break loose, always do so near the boat. 
We moved away from this fellow, and presently he 
came up again, and leaped three more times clear, 
making nineteen leaps in all. That about finished 
his performance., so regretfully I led him alongside; 
and Sam, who had profited by our other days 
of landing sailfish, took him cautiously by the 
sword, and then by the gills, and slid him into the 
boat. 

Sailfish are never alike, except in general outline. 
This one was silver and bronze, with green bars, 
rather faint, and a dark-blue sail without any spots. 
He measured seven feet one inch. But we measured 

77 



TALES OF FISHES 

his quality by his leaps and nineteen gave him the 
record for us so far. 

We stowed him up in the bow and got under way 
again, and scarcely had I let my bait far enough 
astern when a sailfish hit it. In fact, he rushed it. 
Quick as I was, which was as quick as a flash, I was 
not quick enough for that fish. He felt the hook 
and he went away. But he had been there long 
enough to get my bait. 

Just then Sam pointed. I saw a sailfish break 
water a hundred yards away. 

"Look at him yump!" repeated Sam, every time 
the fish came out, which, to be exact, was five times. 

"We'll go over and pick him up," I said. 

Sam and I always argue a little about the exact 
spot where a fish has broken water. I never missed 
it far, but Sam seldom missed it at all. He could 
tell by a slight foam always left by the break. We 
had two baits out, as one or another of my com- 
panions always holds a rod. The more baits out 
the better! We had two vicious, smashing strikes 
at the same time. The fish on the other rod let 
go just as I hooked mine. 

He came up beautifully, throwing the spray, glint- 
ing in the sun, an angry fish with sail spread and his 
fins going. Then on the boat was the same old 
thrilling bustle and excitement and hilarity I knew 
so well and which always pleased me so much. 
This sailfish was a jumper. 

"Look at him yump!" exclaimed Sam, with as 
much glee as if he had not seen it before. 

The cameras got busy. Then I was attracted by 
something flashing in the water nearer the boat 

- 78 



SAILFISH 

than my fish. Suddenly a sailfish leaped, straight- 
away, over my line. Then two leaped at once, both 
directly over my line. 

"Sam, they'll cut my line!" I cried. "What do 
you think of that?" 

Suddenly I saw sharp, dark, curved tails cutting 
the water. All was excitement on board that boat 
then. 

"A school of sailfish! Look! Look!" I yelled. 

I counted ten tails, but there were more than 
that, and if I had been quicker I could have counted 
more. Presently they went down. And I, return- 
ing to earth and the business of fishing, discovered 
that during the excitement my sailfish had taken 
advantage of a perfectly loose line to free himself. 
Nine leaps we recorded him! 

Assuredly we all felt that there would be no 
difficulty in soon hooking up with another sailfish. 
And precisely three minutes later I was standing up, 
leaning forward, all aquiver, watching my line fly 
off the reel. I hooked that fellow hard. He was 
heavy, and he did not come up or take off any 
length of line. Settling down slowly, he descended 
three or four hundred feet, or so it seemed, and 
began to plug, very much like an albacore, only much 
heavier. He fooled around down there for ten min- 
utes, with me jerking at him all the time to irritate 
him, before he showed any sign of rising. At last 
I worried him into a fighting mood, and up he came, 
so fast that I did not even try to take up the slack, 
and he shot straight up. This jump, like that of a 
kingfish, was wonderful. But it was so quick that 
the cameras could not cover it, and we missed a 

79 



TALES OF FISHES 

great picture. He went down, only to leap again. 

I reeled in the slack line and began to jerk at him 

to torment him, and I got him to jumping and 

threshing right near the boat. The sun was in the 

faces of the cameras and that was bad. And as it 

turned out not one of these exposures was good. 

What a chance missed! But we did not know that 

then, and we kept on tormenting him and snapping 

pictures of his leaps. In this way, which was not 

careless, but deliberate, I played with him until he 

shook out the hook. Fifteen leaps was his record. 

Then it was interesting to see how soon I could 

raise another fish. I was on the qui vive for a while, 

then settled back to the old expectant watchfulness. 

And presently I was rewarded by that vibrating 

rap at my bait. I stood up so the better to see. 

The swells were just right and the sun was over my 

shoulder. I spied the long, dark shape back of my 

bait, saw it slide up and strike, felt the sharp rap — 

and again. Then came the gentle tug. I let out 

line, but he let go. Still I could see him plainly 

when the swell was right. I began to jerk my 

bait, to give it a jumping motion, as I had so often 

done with flying-fish bait when after swordfish. 

He sheered off, then turned with a rush, broadside 

on, with his sail up. I saw him clearly, his whole 

length, and he appeared blue and green and silver. 

He took the bait and turned away from me, and 

when I struck the hook into his jaw I felt that it 

would stay. He was not a jumper — only breaking 

clear twice. I could not make him leap. He 

fought hard enough, however, and with that tackle 

took thirty minutes to land. 

so 



SAILFISH 

It was eight o'clock. I had two sailfish in the 
boat and had fought two besides. And at that time 
I sighted the first fishing-boat coming out toward 
the reef. Before that boat got out near us I had 
struck and lost three more sailfish, with eleven leaps 
in all to my credit. This boatman had followed 
Sam and me the day before and he appeared to be 
bent upon repeating himself. I thought I would 
rather enjoy that, because he had two inexperienced 
anglers aboard, and they, in the midst of a school 
of striking sailfish, would be sure to afford some fun. 
Three other boats came out across the reef, ventured 
a little way in the Gulf Stream, and then went back 
to grouper and barracuda. But that one boatman, 
B., stuck to us. And right away things began to 
happen to his anglers. No one so lucky in strikes 
as a green hand ! I saw them get nine strikes with- 
out hooking a fish. And there appeared to be a tur- 
moil on board that boat. I saw B. tearing his hair 
and the fishermen frantically jerking, and then 
waving rods and arms. Much as I enjoyed it, Sam 
enjoyed it more. But I was not mean enough to 
begrudge them a fish and believed that sooner or 
later they would catch one. 

Presently, when B.'s boat was just right for his 
anglers to see everything my way, I felt a tug on 
my line. I leaped up, let the reel run. Then I 
threw on my drag and leaned over to strike. But 
he let go. Quickly I threw off the drag. The sail- 
fish came back. Another tug! I let him run. 
Then threw on the drag and got ready. But, no, 
he let go. Again I threw off the drag and again he 

came back. He was hungry, but he was cunning, 
6 81 



TALES OF FISHES 

too, and too far back for me to see. I let him run 
fifty feet, threw on the drag, and struck hard. No 
go! I missed him. But again I threw off the drag, 
let out more line back to him, and he took the bait 
the fourth time, and harder than ever. I let him 
run perhaps a hundred feet. All the time, of 
course, my boat was running. I had out a long line 
— two hundred yards. Then I threw on the drag 
and almost cracked the rod. This time I actually 
felt the hook go in. 

How heavy and fast he was ! The line slipped off 
and I was afraid of the drag. I threw it off — no 
easy matter with that weight on it — and then the 
line whistled. The sailfish was running straight 
toward B.'s boat and, I calculated, should be close 
to it. 

"Sam," I yelled, "watch him! If he jumps he'll 
jump into that boat!" 

Then he came out, the biggest sailfish I ever saw, 
and he leaped magnificently, not twenty yards back 
of that boat. He must have been beyond the lines 
of the trolling anglers. I expected him to cross 
them or cut himself loose. We yelled to B. to steer 
off, and while we yelled the big sailfish leaped and 
leaped, apparently keeping just as close to the 
boat. He certainly was right upon it and he was 
a savage leaper. He would shoot up, wag his head, 
his sail spread like the ears of a mad elephant, and 
he would turn clear over to alight with a smack 
and splash that we plainly heard. And he had out 
nine hundred feet of line. Because of his size I 
wanted him badly, but, badly as that was, I fought 
him without a drag, let him run and leap, and I 



SAILFISH 

hoped he would jump right into that boat. After- 
ward these anglers told me they expected him to 
do just that and were scared to death. Also they 
said a close sight of him leaping was beautiful and 
thrilling in the extreme. 

I did not keep track of all this sailfish's leaps, but 
Sam recorded twenty-three, and that is enough for 
any fisherman. I venture to state that it will not 
be beaten very soon. When he stopped leaping we 
drew him away from the other boat, and settled 
down to a hard fight with a heavy, stubborn, game 
fish. In perhaps half an hour I had him twenty 
yards away, and there he stayed while I stood up 
on the stern to watch him and keep clear of the pro- 
peller. He weaved from side to side, exactly like 
a tired swordfish, and every now and then he would 
stick out his bill and swish! he would cut at the 
leader. This fish was not only much larger than 
any I had seen, but also more brilliantly colored. 
There were suggestions of purple that reminded me 
of the swordfish — that royal purple game of the 
Pacific. Another striking feature was that in cer- 
tain lights he was a vivid green, and again, when 
deeper, he assumed a strange, triangular shape, much 
like that of a kite. That, of course, was when he 
extended the wide, waving sail. I was not able to 
see that this sail afforded him any particular aid. 
It took me an hour to tire out this sailfish, and when 
we got him in the boat he measured seven feet and 
six inches, which was four inches longer than any 
record I could find then. 

At eleven o'clock I had another in the boat, mak- 
ing four sailfish in all. We got fourteen jumps out 

83 



TALES OF FISHES 

of this last one. That was the end of my remark- 
able luck, though it was luck to me to hook other 
sailfish during the afternoon, and running up the 
number of leaps. I am proud of that, anyway, and 
to those who criticized my catch as unsportsman- 
like I could only say that it was a chance of a 
lifetime and I was after photographs of leaping 
sailfish. Besides, I had a great opportunity to 
beat my record of four swordfish in one day at 
Clemente Island in the Pacific. But I was not 
equal to it. 

I do not know how to catch sailfish yet, though I 
have caught a good many. The sport is young and 
it is as difficult as it is trying. This catch of mine 
made fishermen flock to the Stream all the rest of 
the season, and more fish were caught than for- 
merly. But the proportion held about the same, al- 
though I consider that fishing for a sailfish and catch- 
ing one is a great gain in point. Still, we do not 
know much about sailfish or how to take them. If 
I got twenty strikes and caught only four fish, very 
likely the smallest that bit, I most assuredly was 
not doing skilful fishing as compared with other 
kinds of fishing. And there is the rub. Sailfish are 
not any other kind of fish. They have a wary and 
cunning habit, with an exceptional occasion of blind 
hunger, and they have small, bony jaws into which 
it is hard to sink a hook. Not one of my sailfish 
was hooked deep down. Yet I let nearly all of them 
run out a long line. Moreover, as I said before, if 
a sailfish is hooked there are ten chances to one that 
he will free himself. 

84 





MEMORABLE OF LONG KEY 




y 



LEAPING SAILFISH 



SAILFISH 

This one thing, then, I believe I have proved to 
myself — that the sailfish is the gamest, the most 
beautiful and spectacular, and the hardest fish to 
catch on light tackle, just as his brother, the Pacific 
swordfish, is the grandest fish to take on the heaviest 
of tackle. 

Long Key, indeed, has its charm. Most all the 
anglers who visit there go back again. Only the 
queer ones — and there are many — who want three 
kinds of boats, and nine kinds of bait, and a deep- 
sea diver for a boatman, and tackle that cannot be 
broken, and smooth, calm seas always, and five 
hundred pounds of fish a day — only that kind 
complain of Long Key and kick — and yet go back 
again! 

Sailfish will draw more and finer anglers down to 
the white strip of color that shines white all day 
under a white sun and the same all night under 
white stars. But it is not alone the fish that draws 
real sportsmen to a place and makes them love it 
and profit by their return. It is the spirit of the 
place — the mystery, like that of the little hermit- 
crab, which crawls over the coral sand in his stolen 
shell, and keeps to his lonely course, and loves his 
life so well — sunshine, which is best of all for men; 
and the wind in the waving palms; and the lonely, 
wandering coast with the eternal moan out on the 
reefs, the sweet, fresh tang, the clear, antiseptic 
breath of salt, and always by the glowing, hot, 
colorful day or by the soft dark night with its 
shadows and whisperings on the beach, that signifi- 
cant presence — the sense of something vaster than 
the heaving sea. 

85 



TALES OF FISHES 

Light Tackle in the Gulf Stream 

In view of the present controversy between light- 
tackle and heavy-tackle champions, I think it ad- 
visable for me to state more definitely my stand 
on the matter of light tackle before going on with 
a story about it. 

There is a sharp line to be drawn between light 
tackle that is right and light tackle that is wrong. 
So few anglers ever seem to think of the case of the 
poor fish! In Borneo there is a species of lightning- 
bug that tourists carry around at night on spits, 
delighted with the novelty. But is that not rather 
hard on the lightning-bugs? As a matter of fact, if 
we are to develop as anglers who believe in conserva- 
tion and sportsmanship, we must consider the fish 
— his right to life, and, especially if he must be 
killed, to do it without brutality. 

Brutal it is to haul in a fish on tackle so heavy 
that he has no chance for his life; likewise it is 
brutal to hook a fish on tackle so light that, if he 
does not break it, he must be followed around and 
all over, chased by a motor-boat hour after hour, 
until he practically dies of exhaustion. 

I have had many tarpon and many tuna taken off 
my hooks by sharks because I was using tackle too 
light. It never appeared an impossible feat to 
catch Marlin swordfish on a nine-thread line, nor 
sailfish on a six-thread line. But those lines are too 
light. 

My business is to tell stories. If I can be so for- 
tunate as to make them thrilling and pleasing, for 
the edification of thousands who have other business 

86 



SAILFISH 

and therefore less leisure, then that is a splendid 
thing for me. It is a responsibility that I appre- 
ciate. But on the other hand I must tell the truth, 
I must show my own development, I must be of 
service to the many who have so much more time 
to read than fish. It is not enough to give pleas- 
ure merely; a writer should instruct. And if what 
I say above offends any fisherman, I am sorry, and 
I suggest that he read it twice. 

What weight tackle to use is not such a hard 
problem to decide. All it takes is some experience. 
To quote Mr. Bates, "The principle is that the angler 
should subdue the fish by his skill with rod and 
line, and put his strength into the battle to end it, 
and not employ a worrying process to a frightened 
fish that does not know what it is fighting." 



YI 

GULF STREAM FISHING 

SOME years have passed since I advocated light- 
tackle fishing at Long Key. In the early days 
of this famous resort most fishermen used hand 
lines or very heavy outfits. The difficulties of in- 
troducing a sportsman-like ideal have been mani- 
fold. A good rule of angling philosophy is not to 
interfere with any fisherman's peculiar ways of being 
happy, unless you want to be hated. It is not easy 
to influence a majority of men in the interests of 
conservation. Half of them do not know the con- 
ditions and are only out for a few days' or weeks' 
fun; the rest do not care. But the facts are that 
all food fish and game fish must be conserved. The 
waste has been enormous. If fishermen will only 
study the use of light tackle they will soon appre- 
ciate a finer sport, more fun and gratification, and 
a saving of fish. 

Such expert and fine anglers as Crowninshield, 
Heilner, Cassiard, Lester, Conill, and others are all 
enthusiastic about light tackle and they preach the 
gospel of conservation. 

But the boatmen of Long Key, with the exception 
of Jordon, are all against light tackle. I must say 
that James Jordon is to be congratulated and recom- 



GULF STREAM FISHING 

mended. The trouble at Long Key is that new 
boatmen are hired each season, and, as they do not 
own their boats, all their interest centers in as big 
a catch as possible for each angler they take out, in 
the hope and expectation, of course, of a generous 
tip. Heavy tackle means a big catch and light 
tackle the reverse. And so tons of good food and 
game fish are brought in only to be thrown to the 
sharks. I mention this here to give it a wide pub- 
licity. It is criminal in these days and ought to be 
stopped. 

The season of 1918 was a disappointment in regard 
to any great enthusiasm over the use of light tackle. 
We have tried to introduce principles of the Tuna 
Club of Avalon. President Coxe of the Pacific 
organization is doing much to revive the earlier ideals 
of Doctor Holder, founder of the famous club. This 
year at Long Key a number of prizes were of- 
fered by individual members. The contention was 
that the light tackle specified was too light. This 
is absolutely a mistake. I have proved that the 
regulation Tuna Club nine-thread line and six- 
ounce tip are strong enough, if great care and skill 
be employed, to take the tricky, hard-jawed, wild- 
leaping sailfish. 

And for bonefish, that rare fighter known to so 
few anglers, the three-six tackle — a three-ounce tip 
and six-thread line — is just the ideal rig to make 
the sport exceedingly difficult, fascinating, and 
thrilling. Old bonefishermen almost invariably use 
heavy tackle — stiff rods and twelve- or fifteen-thread 
lines. They have their arguments, and indeed these 
are hard nuts to crack. They claim three-six for 

89 



TALES OF FISHES 

the swift and powerful bonefish is simply absurd. 
No! I can prove otherwise. But that must be 
another story. 

Some one must pioneer these sorely needed re- 
forms. It may be a thankless task, but it is one 
that some of us are standing by. We need the help 
of brother anglers. 

One morning in February there was a light breeze 
from the north and the day promised to be ideal. 
We ran out to the buoy and found the Gulf Stream 
a very dark blue, with a low ripple and a few 
white-caps here and there. 

Above the spindle we began to see sailfish jumping 
everywhere. One leaped thirteen times, and another 
nineteen. Many of them came out side wise, with 
a long, sliding plunge, which action at first I took to 
be that made by a feeding fish. After a while, how- 
ever, and upon closer view, I changed my mind 
about this. 

My method., upon seeing a fish jump, was to speed 
up the boat until we were in the vicinity where the 
fish had come up. Then we would slow down and 
begin trolling, with two baits out, one some forty 
or fifty feet back and the other considerably farther. 

We covered several places where we had seen the 
sheetlike splashes; and at the third or fourth I 
felt the old electrifying tap at my bait. I leaped 
up and let my bait run back. The sailfish tapped 
again, then took hold so hard and ran off so swiftly 
that I jerked sooner than usual. I pulled the bait 
away from him. All this time the boat was running. 
Instead of winding in I let the bait run back. Sud- 

90 



GULF STREAM FISHING 

denly the sailfish took it fiercely. I let him run a 
long way before I struck at him, and then I called 
to the boatman to throw out the clutch. When the 
boat is moving there is a better chance of a tight 
line while striking, and that is imperative if an angler 
expects to hook the majority of these illusive sail- 
fish. I hooked this fellow, and he showed at once, 
a small fish, and began to leap toward the boat, 
making a big bag in the line. I completely lost the 
feel of his weight. When he went down, and with 
all that slack line, I thought he was gone. But 
presently the line tightened and he began to jump 
in another direction. He came out twice with his 
sail spread, a splendid, vivid picture; then he took 
to skittering, occasionally throwing himself clear, 
and he made some surface runs, splashing and thresh- 
ing, and then made some clean greyhound-like leaps. 
In all he cleared the water eleven times before he 
settled down. After that it took me half an hour 
to land him. He was not hurt and we let him go. 
Soon after we got going again we raised a school 
of four or more sailfish. And when a number rush 
for the baits it is always exciting. The first fish 
hit my bait and the second took R. C.'s. I saw both 
fish in action, and there is considerable difference 
between the hitting and the taking of a bait. R. C. 
jerked his bait away from his fish and I yelled for 
him to let it run back. He did so. A bronze and 
silver blaze and a boil on the water told me how 
hungry R. C.'s sailfish was. "Let him run with it!" 
I yelled. Then - 1 attended to my own troubles. 
There was a fish rapping at my bait. I let out line, 
yard after yard, but he would not take hold, and, as 

91 



TALES OF FISHES 

R. C.'s line was sweeping over mine, I thought best 
to reel in. 

"Hook him now!" I yelled. 

I surely did shiver at the way my brother came 
up with that light tackle. But he hooked the sail- 
fish, and nothing broke. Then came a big white 
splash on the surface, but no sign of the fish. R. 
C.'s line sagged down. 

"Lookout! Wind in! He's coming at us!" I called. 

"He's off!" replied my brother. 

That might well have been, but, as I expected, 
he was not. He broke water on a slack line and 
showed us all his dripping, colorful body nearer than 
a hundred feet. R. C. thereupon performed with 
incredible speed at the reel and quickly had a tight 
line. Mr. Sailfish did not like that. He slid out, 
wrathfully wagging his bill, and left a seamy, foamy 
track behind him, finally to end that play with a 
splendid long leap. He was headed away from us 
now, with two hundred yards of line out, going hard 
and fast, and we had to follow him. We had a fine 
straightaway run to recover the line. This was a 
thrilling chase, and one, I think, we never would 
have had if R. C. had been using heavy tackle. 
The sailfish led us out half a mile before he sounded. 

Then in fifteen minutes more R. C. had him up 
where we could see his purple and bronze colors and 
the strange, triangular form of him, which peculiar 
shape came mostly from the waving sail. I thought 
I saw other shapes and colors with him, and bent 
over the gunwale to see better. 

"He's got company. Two sharks! — You want to 
do some quick work now or good-by sailfish!" 

92 



GULF STREAM FISHING 

A small gray shark and a huge yellow shark were 
coming up with our quarry. R. C. said things, and 
pulled hard on the light tackle. I got hold of the 
leader and drew the sailfish close to the boat. He 
began to thresh, and the big shark came with a 
rush. Instinctively I let go of the leader, which 
action was a blunder. The sailfish saw the shark 
and, waking up, he fought a good deal harder than 
before the sharks appeared upon the scene. He 
took off line, and got so far away that I gave up 
any hope that the sharks might not get him. There 
was a heavy commotion out in the water. The 
shark had made a rush. So had the sailfish, and he 
came right back to the boat. R. C. reeled in 
swiftly. 

"Hold him hard now!" I admonished, and I leaped 
up on the stern. The sailfish sheered round on the 
surface, with tail and bill out, while the shark swam 
about five feet under him. He was a shovel-nosed, 
big-finned yellow shark, weighing about five hun- 
dred pounds. He saw me. I waved my hat at 
him, but he did not mind that. He swam up toward 
the surface and his prey. R. C. was now handling 
the light tackle pretty roughly. It is really remark- 
able what can be done with nine-thread. In another 
moment we would have lost the sailfish. The boat- 
man brought my rifle and a shot scared the shark 
away. Then we got the sailfish into the boat. He 
was a beautiful specimen for mounting, weighing 
forty-five pounds, the first my brother had taken. 

After that we had several strikes, but not one of 
them was what I could call a hungry, smashing 
strike. These sailfish are finicky biters. I had one 

03 



TALES OF FISHES 

rap at my bait with his bill until he knocked the 
bait off. 

I think the feature of the day was the sight of 
two flying-fish that just missed boarding the boat. 
They came out to the left of us and sailed ahead 
together. Then they must have been turned by 
the wind, for they made a beautiful, graceful curve 
until they came around so that I was sure they would 
fly into the boat. Their motion was indescribably 
airy and feathery, buoyant and swift, with not the 
slightest quiver of fins or wings as they passed 
within five feet of me. I could see through the 
crystal wings. Their bodies were white and silvery, 
and they had staring black eyes. They were not 
so large as the California flying-fish, nor did they 
have any blue color. They resembled the Cali- 
fornia species, however, in that same strange, hunted 
look which always struck me. To see these flying- 
fish this way was provocative of thought. They 
had been pursued by some hungry devil of a fish, 
and with a birdlike swiftness with which nature had 
marvelously endowed them they had escaped the 
enemy. Here I had at once the wonder and beauty 
and terror of the sea. These fish were not leaping 
with joy. I have not often seen fish in the salt 
water perform antics for anything except flight or 
pursuit. Sometimes kingfish appear to be playing 
when they leap so wonderfully at sunset hour, but 
as a rule salt-water fish do not seem to be playful. 

At Long Key the Gulf Stream is offshore five 
miles. The water shoals gradually anywhere from 
two feet near the beach to twenty feet five miles 



GULP STREAM FISHING 

out on the reef. When there has been no wind for 
several days, which is a rare thing for Long Key, 
the water becomes crystal clear and the fish and 
marine creatures are an endless source of interest 
to the fisherman. Of course a large boat, in going 
out on the reef, must use the channel between the 
keys, but a small boat or canoe can go anywhere. 
It is remarkable how the great game fish come in 
from the Stream across the reef into shoal water. 
Barracuda come right up to the shore, and likewise 
the big sharks. The bottom is a clean, white, finely 
ribbed coral sand, with patches of brown seaweed 
here and there and golden spots, and in the shallower 
water different kinds of sponges. Out on the reef the 
water is a light green. The Gulf Stream runs along 
the outer edge of the reef, and here between Ten- 
nessee Buoy and Alligator Light, eighteen miles, is 
a feeding-ground for sailfish, kingfish, amberjack, 
barracuda, and other fishes. The ballyhoo is the 
main feed of these fishes, and it is indeed a queer 
little fish. He was made by nature, like the sar- 
dine and mullet and flying-fish, to serve as food for 
the larger fishes. The ballyhoo is about a foot 
long, slim and flat, shiny and white on the sides 
and dark green on the back, with a sharp-pointed, 
bright-yellow tail, the lower lobe of which is de- 
veloped to twice the length of the upper. He has 
a very strange feature in the fact that his lower jaw 
resembles the bill of a snipe, being several inches 
long, sharp and pointed and hard; but he has no 
upper lip or beak at all. This half -bill must be used 
in relation to his food, but I do not have any idea 
how this is done. 

95 



TALES OF FISHES 

One day I found the Gulf Stream a mile off Ten- 
nessee Buoy, whereas on other days it would be close 
in. On this particular day the water was a dark, 
clear, indigo blue and appreciably warmer than the 
surrounding sea. This Stream has a current of sev- 
eral miles an hour, flowing up the coast. Every- 
where we saw the Portuguese men-of-war shining on 
the waves. There was a slight, cool breeze blowing, 
rippling the water just enough to make fishing 
favorable. I saw a big loggerhead turtle, weighing 
about three hundred pounds, coming around on the 
surface among these Portuguese men-of-war, and 
as we ran up I saw that he was feeding on these 
queer balloon-like little creatures. Sometimes he 
would come up under one and it would stick on his 
back, and he would turn laboriously around from 
under it, and submerge his back so he had it floating 
again. Then he would open his cavernous mouth 
and take it in. Considering the stinging poison 
these Portuguese men-of-war secrete about them, 
the turtle must have had a very tabasco-sauce meal. 
Right away I began to see evidence of fish on the 
surface, which is always a good sign. We went 
past a school of bonita breaking the water up into 
little swirls. Then I saw a smashing break of a 
sailfish coming out sideways, sending the water in 
white sheets. We slowed down the boat and got 
our baits overboard at once. I was using a bally- 
hoo bait hooked by a small hook through the lips, 
with a second and larger hook buried in the body. 
R. C. was using a strip of mullet, which for obvious 
reasons seems to be the preferred bait from Palm 
Beach to Long Key. And the obvious reason is that 

96 



GULF STREAM FISHING 

nobody seems to take the trouble to get what might 
be proper bait for sailfish. Mullet is an easy bait 
to get and commands just as high a price as any- 
thing else, which, as a matter of fact, is highway 
robbery. With a bait like a ballyhoo or a shiner 
I could get ten bites to one with mullet. 

We trolled along at slow speed. The air was 
cool, the sun pleasant, the sea beautiful, and this 
was the time to sit back and enjoy a sense of free- 
dom and great space of the ocean, and watch for 
leaping fish or whatever might attract the eye. 

Here and there we passed a strange jellyfish, the 
like of which I had never before seen. It was about 
as large as a good-sized cantaloup, and pale, clear 
yellow all over one end and down through the middle, 
and then commenced a dark red fringe which had 
a waving motion. Inside this fringe was a scal- 
loped circular appendage that had a sucking motion, 
which must have propelled it through the water, 
and it made quite fair progress. Around every one 
of these strange jellyfish was a little school of tiny 
minnows, as clear-colored as crystals. These all 
swam on in the same direction as the drift of the 
Gulf Stream. 

When we are fishing for sailfish everything that 
strikes we take to be a sailfish until we find out it 
is something else. They are inconsistent and queer 
fish. Sometimes they will rush a bait, at other 
times they will tug at it and then chew at it, and 
then they will tap it with their bills. I think I 
have demonstrated that they are about the hard- 
est fish to hook that swims, and also on light tackle 
they are one of the gamest and most thrilling. 

7 97 



TALES OF FISHES 

However, not one in a hundred fishermen who come 
to Long Key will go after them with light tackle. 
And likewise not one out of twenty-five sailfish 
brought in there is caught by a fisherman who de- 
liberately went out after sailfish. Mostly they are 
caught by accident while drags are set for kingfish 
or barracuda. At Palm Beach I believe they fish 
for them quite persistently, with a great deal of suc- 
cess. But it is more a method of still fishing which 
has no charms for me. 

Presently my boatman yelled, "Sailfish!" We 
looked off to port and saw a big sailfish break water 
nine times. He was perhaps five hundred yards 
distant. My boatman put on speed, and, as my 
boat is fast, it did not take us long to get some- 
where near where this big fish broke. We did our 
best to get to the exact spot where he came up, 
then slowed down and trolled over the place. In 
this instance I felt a light tap on my bait and I 
jumped up quickly, both to look and let him take 
line. But I did not see him or feel him any more. 
We went on. I saw a flash of bright silver back of 
my brother's bait. At the instant he hooked a 
kingfish. And then I felt one cut my bait off. 
Kingfish are savage strikers and they almost in- 
variably hook themselves when the drag is set. 
But as I fish for sailfish with a free-running reel, of 
course I am exasperated when a kingfish takes hold. 
My brother pulled in this kingfish, which was small, 
and we rebaited our hooks and went on again. 
I saw more turtles, and one we almost ran over, he 
was so lazy in getting down. These big, cumber- 
some sea animals, once they get headed down and 

98 



A\\\\^-^ 




TWIN TIGERS OF THE SEA — THE SAVAGE BARRACUDA 



GULF STREAM FISHING 

started, can disappear with remarkable rapidity. 
I rather enjoy watching them, but my boatman, 
who is a native of these parts and therefore a turtle- 
hunter by instinct, always wore a rather disappointed 
look when we saw one. This was because I would 
not allow him to harpoon it. 

The absence of gulls along this stretch of reef is 
a feature that struck me. So that once in a while 
when I did see a lonely white gull I watched him 
with pleasure. And once I saw a cero mackerel 
jump way in along the reef, and even at a mile's 
distance I could see the wonderful curve he made. 

The wind freshened, and all at once it seemed 
leaping sailfish were all around us. Then as we 
turned the boat this way and that we had thrills 
of anticipation. Suddenly It. C. had a strike. The 
fish took the bait hungrily and sheered off like an 
arrow and took line rapidly. When R. C. hooked 
him he came up with a big splash and shook himself 
to free the hook. He jumped here and there and 
then went down deep. And then he took a good 
deal of line off the reel. I was surprised to see a 
sailfish stick his bill out of the water very much 
closer to the boat than where R. C.'s fish should 
have been. I had no idea then that this was a fish 
other than the one R. C. had hooked. But when he 
cut the line either with his bill or his tail, and R. C. 
wound it in, we very soon discovered that it was 
not the fish that he had hooked. This is one of the 
handicaps of light tackle. 

We went on fishing. Sailfish would jump around 
us for a while and then they would stop. We would 
not see one for several minutes. It is always very 

99 



TALES OF FISHES 

exciting to be among them this way. Presently I 

had one take hold to run off slowly and steadily, 

and I let him go for fifty feet, and when I struck 

I tore the hook away from him. Quickly I let slack 

line run back to him ten or fifteen feet at a time, 

until I felt him take it once more. He took it rather 

suspiciously, I felt, and I honestly believe that I 

could tell that he was mouthing or chewing the bait, 

which made me careful to let the line run off easily 

to him. Suddenly he rushed off, making the reel 

smoke. I let him run one hundred and fifty feet 

and then stood up, throwing on the drag, and when 

the line straightened tight I tried to jerk at him as 

hard as the tackle would stand. As a matter of 

fact, however, he was going so fast and hard that 

he hooked himself. It is indeed seldom that I miss 

one when he runs like this. This fellow came up 

two hundred yards from the boat and slid along 

the water with half of his body raised, much like 

one of those coasting-boards I have seen bathers 

use, towed behind a motor-launch. He went down 

and came up in a magnificent sheer leap, with his 

broad sail shining in the sun. Very angry he was, 

and he reminded me of a Marlin swordfish. Next 

he went down, and came up again bent in a curve, 

with the big sail stretched again. He skittered over 

the water, going down and coming up, until he had 

leaped seven times. This was a big, heavy fish, 

and on the light six-ounce tip and nine-thread line 

I had my work cut out for me. We had to run 

the boat toward him so I could get back my line. 

Here was the advantage of having a fast boat with 

a big rudder, Otherwise I would have lost my 

100 



GULF STREAM FISHING 

fish. After some steady deep plugging he came 
up again and set my heart aflutter by a long surface 
play in which he took off one hundred yards of line 
and then turned, leaping straight for the boat. 
Fortunately the line was slack and I could throw off 
the drag and let him run. Slack line never bothers 
me when I really get one of these fish well hooked. 
If he is not well hooked he is going to get away, 
anyhow. After that he went down into deep water 
and I had one long hour of hard work in bringing 
him to the boat. Six hours later he weighed fifty- 
eight and a half pounds, and as he had lost a good 
deal of blood and dried out considerably, he would 
have gone over sixty pounds, which, so far, is the 
largest sailfish I know of caught on light tackle. 

The sailfish were still leaping around us and we 
started off again. The captain called our attention 
to a tail and a sail a few yards apart not far from 
the boat. We circled around them to drive them 
down. I saw a big wave back of R. C.'s bait and 
I yelled, "Look out!" I felt something hit my 
bait and then hit it again. I knew it was a sailfish 
rapping at it. I let the line slip off the reel. Just 
then R. C. had a vicious strike and when he hooked 
the fish the line snapped. He claimed that he had 
jerked too hard. This is the difficulty with light 
tackle — to strike hard, yet not break anything. I 
was standing up and leaning forward, letting my 
line slip off the reel, trying to coax that sailfish to 
come back. Something took hold and almost 
jerked the rod out of my hands. That was a mag- 
nificent strike, and of course I thought it was one of 

the sailfish. But when I hooked him I had my 

101 



TALES OF FISHES 

doubts. The weight was heavy and ponderous and 
tugging. He went down and down and down. The 
boatman said amber jack. I was afraid so. but I 
still had my hopes. For a while I could not budge 
him, and at last, when I had given up hope that it 
was a sailfish, I worked a good deal harder than I 
would have otherwise. It took me twenty-five 
minutes to subdue a forty-pound amber jack. Here 
was proof of what could be done with light tackle. 

About ten-thirty of this most delightful and favor- 
able day we ran into a school of barracuda. R. C. 
hooked a small one, which was instantly set upon 
by its voracious comrades and torn to pieces. Then 
I had a tremendous strike, hard, swift, long — every- 
thing to make a tingle of nerve and blood. The 
instant I struck, up out of a flying splash rose a long, 
sharp, silver-flashing tiger of the sea, and if he 
leaped an inch he leaped forty feet. On that light 
tackle he was a revelation. Five times more he 
leaped, straight up, very high, gills agape, jaws 
wide, body curved — a sight for any angler. He 
made long runs and short runs and all kinds of runs, 
and for half an hour he defied any strain I dared 
put on him. Eventually I captured him, and I con- 
sidered him superior to a tarpon of equal or even 
more weight. 

Barracuda are a despised fish, apparently because 
of their voracious and murderous nature. But I 
incline to the belief that it is because the invariable 
use of heavy tackle has blinded the fishermen to the 
wonderful leaping and fighting qualities of this long- 
nosed, long-toothed sea-tiger. The few of us who 
have hooked barracuda on light tackle know him as 

102 



GULF STREAM FISHING 

a marvelous performer. Van Campen Heilner wrote 
about a barracuda he caught on a bass rod, and he 
is not likely to forget it, nor will the reader of his 
story forget it. 

R. C. had another strike, hooked his fish, and 
brought it in readily. It was a bonita of about five 
pounds, the first one my brother had ever caught. 
We were admiring his beautiful, subdued colors as 
he swam near the boat, when up out of the blue 
depths shot a long gray form as swift as lightning. 
It was a big barracuda. In his rush he cut that 
bonita in two. The captain grasped the line and 
yelled for us to get the gaffs. R. C. dropped the 
rod and got the small gaff, and as I went for the big 
one I heard them both yell. Then I bent over to 
see half a dozen big gray streaks rush for what was 
left of that poor little bonita. The big barracuda 
with incredible speed and unbelievable ferocity rushed 
right to the side of the boat at the bonita. He got 
hold of it and R. C. in striking at him to gaff him 
hit him over the head several times. Then the gaff 
hook caught him and R. C. began to lift. The 
barracuda looked to me to be fully seven feet long 
and half as big around as a telegraph pole. He 
made a tremendous splash in the water. R. C. was 
deluged. He and the boatman yelled in their ex- 
citement. But R. C. was unable to hold the big 
fish on this small gaff, and I got there too late. The 
barracuda broke loose. Then, equally incredibly, he 
turned with still greater ferocity and rushed the 
bonita again, but before he could get to it another 
and smaller barracuda had hold of it. At this in- 
stant I leaned over with a club. With one powerful 

103 



TALES OF FISHES 

sweep I hit one of the barracuda on the head. When 
I reached over again the largest one was contending 
with a smaller one for the remains of the bonita. I 
made a vicious pass at the big one, missing him. 
Quick as I was, before I could get back, the big fel- 
low had taken the head of the bonita and rushed off 
with it, tearing the line out of the captain's hands. 
Then we looked at one another. It had all hap- 
pened in a minute. We were all wringing wet and 
panting from excitement and exertion. This is a 
gruesome tale of the sea and I put it here only to 
illustrate the incomparable savageness of these 
tigers of the Gulf Stream. 

The captain put the fish away and cleaned up the 
boat and we resumed fishing. I ate lunch holding 
the rod in one hand, loath to waste any time on this 
wonderful day. Sailfish were still jumping here and 
there and far away. The next thing to happen was 
that R. C. hooked a small kingfish, and at the same 
instant a big one came clear out in an unsuccessful 
effort to get my bait. This happened to be near 
the reef, and as we were going out I hooked a big 
grouper that tried out my small tackle for all it was 
worth. But I managed to keep him from getting 
on the bottom, and at length brought him in. The 
little six-ounce tip now looked like a buggy-whip 
that was old and worn out. After that nothing hap- 
pened for quite a little spell. We had opportunity 
to get rested. Presently R. C. had a sailfish tap his 
bait and tap it again and tug at it and then take 
hold and start away. R. C. hooked him and did 
it carefully, trying not to put too much strain on 
th,e line. Here is where great skill is required. 

104 



GULF STREAM FISHING 

But the line broke. After that he took one of my 
other tackles. Something went wrong with the en- 
gine and the captain had to shut down and we drifted. 
I had a long line out and it gradually sank. Some- 
thing took hold and I hooked it and found myself 
fast to a deep-sea, hard-fighting fish of some kind. 
I got him up eventually, and was surprised to see 
a great, broad, red-colored fish, which turned out 
to be a mutton-fish, much prized for food. I had 
now gotten six varieties of fish in the Gulf Stream 
and we were wondering what next. I was hoping 
it would be a dolphin or a wahoo. It happened, 
however, to be a beautiful cero mackerel, one of the 
shapeliest and most attractive fish in these waters. 
He is built something like the brook-trout, except 
for a much sharper head and wider fins and tail. 
But he is speckled very much after the manner of 
the trout. We trolled on, and all of a sudden raised 
a school of sailfish. They came up with a splashing 
rush very thrilling to see. One hit R. C.'s bait 
hard, and then another, by way of contrast, began 
to tug and chew at mine. I let the line out slowly. 
And as I did so I saw another one follow R. C.'s 
mutilated bait which he was bringing toward the 
boat. He was a big purple-and-bronze fellow and 
he would have taken a whole bait if it could have 
been gotten to him. But he sheered away, fright- 
ened by the boat. I failed to hook my fish. It was 
getting along pretty well into the afternoon by this 
time and the later it got the better the small fish 
and kingfish seemed to bite. I caught one barra- 
cuda and six kingfish, while R. C. was performing 
a somewhat similar feat. Then he got a smashing 

105 



TALES OF FISHES 

strike from a sailfish that went off on a hard, fast 
rush, so that he hooked it perfectly. He jumped 
nine times, several of which leaps I photographed. 
He was a good-sized fish and active and strong. 
R. C. had him up to the boat in thirty minutes, 
which was fine work for the light tackle. I made 
sure that the fish was as good as caught and I did 
not look to see where he was hooked. My boat- 
man is not skilled in the handling of the fish when 
they are brought in. Few boatmen are. He took 
hold of the leader, and as he began to lift I saw 
that the hook was fast in the bill of the sailfish fully 
six inches from his mouth. At that instant the sail- 
fish began to thresh. I yelled to the boatman to 
let go, but either I was not quick enough or he did 
not obey, for the hook snapped free and the sailfish 
slowly swam away, his great purple-and-blue spotted 
sail waving in the water, and his bronze sides shining. 
And we were both glad that he had gotten away, 
because we had had the fun out of him and had 
taken pictures of him jumping, and he was now alive 
and might make another fisherman sport some day. 



VII 



BONEFISH 

IN my experience as a fisherman the greatest pleas- 
ure has been the certainty of something new to t 
learn, to feel, to anticipate, to thrill over. An old 
proverb tells us that if you wish to bring back the 
wealth of the Indias you must go out with its equiva- 
lent. Surely the longer a man fishes the wealthier 
he becomes in experience, in reminiscence, in love 
of nature, if he goes out with the harvest of a quiet 
eye, free from the plague of himself. 

As a boy, fishing was a passion with me, but no 
more for the conquest of golden sunfish and speckled 
chubs and horny catfish than for the haunting 
sound of the waterfall and the color and loneliness 
of the cliffs. As a man, and a writer who is forever 
learning, fishing is still a passion, stronger with all 
the years, but tempered by an understanding of 
the nature of primitive man, hidden in all of us, and 
by a keen reluctance to deal pain to any creature. 
The sea and the river and the mountain have almost 
taught me not to kill except for the urgent needs 
of life; and the time will come when I shall have 
grown up to that. When I read a naturalist or a 
biologist I am always ashamed of what I have called 
a sport. Yet one of the truths of evolution is that 

107 



TALES OF FISHES 

not to practise strife, not to use violence, not to fish 
or hunt — that is to say, not to fight — is to retrograde 
as a natural man. Spiritual and intellectual growth 
is attained at the expense of the physical. 

Always, then, when I am fishing I feel that the 
fish are incidental, and that the reward of effort 
and endurance, the incalculable and intangible 
knowledge emanate from the swelling and infinite 
sea or from the shaded and murmuring stream. Thus 
I assuage my conscience and justify the fun, the joy, 
the excitement, and the violence. 

Five years ago I had never heard of a bonefish. 
The first man who ever spoke to me about this 
species said to me, very quietly with serious intent- 
ness: "Have you had any experience with bone- 
fish?" I said no, and asked him what kind that 
was. His reply was enigmatical. "Well, don't go 
after bonefish unless you can give up all other fish- 
ing." I remember I laughed. But I never forgot 
that remark, and now it comes back to me clear 
in its significance. That fisherman read me as well 
as I misunderstood him. 

Later that season I listened to talk of inexperi- 
enced bonefishermen telling what they had done 
and heard. To me it was absurd. So much fishing 
talk seems ridiculous, anyway. And the expert fish- 
ermen, wherever they were, received the expressive 
titles: "Bonefish Bugs and Bonefish Nuts!" Again 
I heard arguments about tackle rigged for these 
mysterious fish and these arguments fixed my vague 
impression. By and by some bonefishermen came 
to Long Key, and the first sight of a bonefish made 
me curious. I think it weighed five pounds — a fair- 

108 



BONEFISH 

sized specimen. Even to my prejudiced eye that 
fish showed class. So I began to question the bone- 
fishermen. 

At once I found this type of angler to be remark- 
ably reticent as to experience and method. More- 
over, the tackle used was amazing to me. Stiff rods 
and heavy lines for little fish! I gathered another 
impression, and it was that bonefish were related 
to dynamite and chain lightning. Everybody who 
would listen to my questions had different things to 
say. No two men agreed on tackle or bait or ground 
or anything. I enlisted the interest of my brother 
R. C, and we decided, just to satisfy curiosity, to 
go out and catch some bonefish. The complacent, 
smug conceit of fishermen! I can see now how 
funny ours was. Fortunately it is now past tense. 
If I am ever conceited again I hope no one will read 
my stories. 

My brother and I could not bring ourselves to 
try for bonefish with heavy tackle. It was pre- 
posterous. Three — four — five-pound fish! We had 
seen no larger. Bass tackle was certainly heavy 
enough for us. So in the innocence of our hearts 
and the assurance of our vanity we sallied forth to 
catch bonefish. 

That was four years ago. Did we have good 
luck? No! Luck has nothing to do with bone- 
fishing. "What happened? For one solid month 
each winter of those four years we had devoted our- 
selves to bonefishing with light tackle. We stuck 
to our colors. The space of this whole volume would 
not be half enough to tell our experience — the amaze, 
the difficulty, the perseverance, the defeat, the won- 

109 



TALES OF FISHES 

der, and at last the achievement. The season of 
1918 we hooked about fifty bonefish on three-six 
tackles — that is, three-ounce tips and six-thread 
lines — and we landed fourteen of them. I caught 
nine and R. C. caught five. R. C.'s eight-pound 
fish justified our contention and crowned our efforts. 

To date, in all my experience, I consider this 
bonefish achievement the most thrilling, fascinat- 
ing, difficult, and instructive. That is a broad state- 
ment and I hope I can prove it. I am prepared to 
state that I feel almost certain, if I spent another 
month bonefishing, I would become obsessed and 
perhaps lose my enthusiasm for other kinds of fish. 

Why? 

There is a multiplicity of reasons. My reasons 
range from the exceedingly graceful beauty of a bone- 
fish to the fact that he is the best food fish I ever 
ate. That is a wide range. He is the wisest, shy- 
est, wariest, strangest fish I ever studied; and I 
am not excepting the great Xiphias gladius — the 
broadbill swordfish. As for the speed of a bonefish, 
I claim no salmon, no barracuda, no other fish cele- 
brated for swiftness of motion, is in his class. A 
bonefish is so incredibly fast that it was a long time 
before I could believe the evidence of my own eyes. 
You see him; he is there perfectly still in the clear, 
shallow water, a creature of fish shape, pale green 
and silver, but crystal-like, a phantom shape, star- 
ing at you with strange black eyes; then he is gone. 
Vanished! Absolutely without your seeing a move- 
ment, even a faint streak! By peering keenly you 
may discern a little swirl in the water. As for the 

strength of a bonefish, I actually hesitate to give my 

no 



* 


1 


4 


f 


i 1 


■M: ■ '■■■ 


■ 


^ 


-J // 1" fe 

..'■'■ "* 

I ft ' 
"'■■ ■": ■■■;■"■- -\?,- 


il [ w 


By s 


'""•"■--- jfiKl^zSS&er^*'! r~ 


CCTC 


1 " * 7? 


. J5JS3B 


III? 




j§r •"-"■< 


r 1 

8 

i 1 


111- ■ 

111 



BONEFISH 

impressions. No one will ever believe how powerful 
a bonefish is until he has tried to stop the rush and 
heard the line snap. As for his cunning, it is utterly 
baffling. As for his biting, it is almost imperceptible. 
As for his tactics,, they are beyond conjecture. 

I want to append here a few passages from my 
note-books, in the hope that a bare, bald statement 
of fact will help my argument. 

First experience on a bonefish shoal. This wide 
area of coral mud was dry at low tide. When we 
arrived the tide was rising. Water scarcely a foot 
deep, ^very clear. Bottom white, with patches of 
brown grass. We saw bonefish everywhere and 
expected great sport. But no matter where we 
stopped we could not get any bites. Schools of 
bonefish swam up to the boat, only to dart away. 
Everywhere we saw thin white tails sticking out, as 
they swam along, feeding with noses in the mud. 
When we drew in our baits we invariably found them 
half gone, and it was our assumption that the blue 
crabs did this. 

At sunset the wind quieted. It grew very still 
and beautiful. The water was rosy. Here and 
there we saw swirls and tails standing out, and we 
heard heavy thumps of plunging fish. But we 
could not get any bites. 

When we returned to camp we were told that the 
half of our soldier-crab baits had been sucked off 
by bonefish. Did not believe that. 

Tide bothered us again this morning. It seems 

exceedingly difficult to tell one night before what 

the tide is going to do the next morning. At ten 

111 



TALES OF FISHES 

o'clock we walked to the same place we were yester- 
day. It was a bright, warm day, with just enough 
breeze to ruffle the water and make fishing pleasant, 
and we certainly expected to have good luck. But 
we fished for about three hours without any sign of 
a fish. This was discouraging and we could not 
account for it. 

So we moved. About half a mile down the beach 
I thought I caught a glimpse of a bonefish. It was 
a likely-looking contrast to the white marl all around. 
Here I made a long cast and sat down to wait. My 
brother lagged behind. Presently I spied two bone- 
fish nosing along not ten feet from the shore. They 
saw me, so I made no attempt to drag the bait near 
them, but I called to my brother and told him to 
try to get a bait ahead of them. This was a little 
after flood-tide. It struck me then that these sin- 
gular fish feed up the beach with one tide and down 
with another. 

Just when my brother reached me I got a nibble. 
I called to him and then stood up, ready to strike. 
I caught a glimpse of the fish. He looked big and 
dark. He had his nose down, fooling with my bait. 
When I struck him he felt heavy. I put on the click 
of the reel, and when the bonefish started off he 
pulled the rod down hard, taking the line fast. He 
made one swirl on the surface and then started up 
shore. He seemed exceedingly swift. I ran along 
the beach until presently the line slackened and I 
felt that the hook had torn out. This was disap- 
pointment. I could not figure that I had done any- 
thing wrong, but I decided in the future to use a 

smaller and sharper hook. We went on down the 

112 



BONEFISH 

beach, seeing several bonefish on the way, and finally 
we ran into a big school of them. They were right 
alongshore, but when they saw us we could not 
induce them to bite. 

Every day we learn something. It is necessary 
to keep out of sight of these fish. After they bite, 
everything depends upon the skilful hooking of the 
fish. Probably it will require a good deal of skill 
to land them after you have hooked them, but we 
have had little experience at that so far. When 
these fish are along the shore they certainly are feed- 
ing, and presumably they are feeding on crabs of 
some sort. Bonefish appear to be game worthy of 
any fisherman's best efforts. 

It was a still, hot day, without any clouds. We 
went up the beach to a point opposite an old con- 
struction camp. To-day when we expected the tide 
to be doing one thing it was doing another. Ebb 
and flow and flood-tide have become as difficult as 
Sanskrit synonyms for me. My brother took an 
easy and comfortable chair and sat up the beach, 
and I, like an ambitious fisherman, laboriously and 
adventurously waded out one hundred and fifty feet 
to an old platform that had been erected there. I 
climbed upon this, and found it a very precarious 
place to sit. Come to think about it, there is some- 
thing very remarkable about the places a fisherman 
will pick out to sit down on. This place was a two- 
by-four plank full of nails, and I cheerfully availed 
myself of it and, casting my bait out as far as I 
could, I calmly sat down to wait for a bonefish. It 
has become a settled conviction in my mind that 

8 113 



4 TALES OF FISHES 

you have to wait for bonefish. But all at once 
I got a hard bite. It quite excited me. I jerked 
and pulled the bait away from the fish and he 
followed it and took it again. I saw this fish 
and several others in the white patch of ground 
where there were not any weeds. But in my excite- 
ment I did not have out a long enough line, and when 
I jerked the fish turned over and got away. This 
was all right, but the next two hours sitting in the 
sun on that seat with a nail sticking into me were 
not altogether pleasurable. When I thought I had 
endured it as long as I could I saw a flock of seven 
bonefish swimming past me, and one of them was 
a whopper. The sight revived me. I hardly 
breathed while that bunch of fish swam right for 
my bait, and for all I could see they did not know 
it was there. I waited another long time. The sun 
was hot — there was no breeze — the heat was re- 
flected from the water. I could have stood all this 
well enough, but I could not stand the nails. So I 
climbed down off my perch, having forgotten that 
all this time the tide had been rising. And as I 
could not climb back I had to get wet, to the infinite 
amusement of my brother. After that I fished from 
the shore. 

Presently my brother shouted and I looked up 
to see him pulling on a fish. There was a big splash 
in the water and then I saw his line running out. 
The fish was heading straight for the framework on 
which I had been seated and I knew if he ever did 
get there he would break the line. All of a sudden 
I saw the fish he had hooked. And he reached the 
framework all right! 

114 



BONEFISH 

I had one more strike this day, but did not hook 
the fish. It seems this bonefishing takes infinite 
patience. For all we can tell, these fish come swim- 
ming along with the rising tide close in to shore and 
they are exceedingly shy and wary. My brother 
now has caught two small bonefish and each of 
them gave a good strong bite, at once starting off 
with the bait. We had been under the impression 
that it was almost impossible to feel the bonefish 
bite. It will take work to learn this game. 

Yesterday we went up on the north side of the 
island to the place near the mangroves where we 
had seen some bonefish. Arriving there, we found 
the tide almost flood, with the water perfectly smooth 
and very clear and about a foot deep up at the 
mangrove roots. Here and there at a little distance 
we could see splashes. We separated, and I took 
the outside, while R. C. took the inside close to the 
mangroves. We waded along. Before I had time 
to make a cast I saw a three-pound bonefish come 
sneaking along, and when he saw me he darted 
away like an arrow. I made a long cast and com- 
posed myself to wait. Presently a yell from R. C. 
electrified me with the hope that he had hooked 
a fish. But it turned out that he had only seen 
one. He moved forward very cautiously in the 
water and presently made a cast. He then said 
that a big bonefish was right near his hook, and 
during the next few minutes this fish circled his 
bait twice, crossing his line. Then he counted out 
loud: one, two, three, four, five bonefish right in 
front of him, one of which was a whopper. I stood 

115 



TALES OF FISHES 

up myself and saw one over to my right, of about 
five pounds, sneaking along with his nose to the 
bottom. When I made a cast over in his direction 
he disappeared as suddenly as if he had dissolved 
in the water. Looking out to my left, I saw half 
a dozen bonefish swimming toward me, and they 
came quite close. When I moved they vanished. 
Then I made a cast over in this direction. The bone- 
fish came back and swam all around my bait, appar- 
ently not noticing it. They were on the feed, and 
the reason they did not take our bait must have 
been that they saw us. We fished there for an hour 
without having a sign of a bite, and then we gave 
it up. 

To-day about flood-tide I had a little strike. I 
jerked hard, but failed to see the fish, and then when 
I reeled in I found he still had hold of it. Then I 
struck him, and in one little jerk he broke the leader. 

I just had a talk with a fellow who claims to 
know a good deal about bonefishing. He said he 
had caught a good many ranging up to eight pounds. 
His claim was that soldier crabs were the best bait. 
He said he had fished with professional boatmen 
who knew the game thoroughly. They would pole 
the skiff alongshore and keep a sharp lookout for 
what he called bonefish mud. And I assume that 
he meant muddy places in the water that had been 
stirred up by bonefish. Of course, any place where 
these little swirls could be seen was very likely to 
be a bonefish bank. He claimed that it was neces- 
sary to hold the line near the reel between the fore- 
fingers, and to feel for the very slightest vibration. 

U6 



BONEFISH 

Bonefish have a sucker-like mouth. They draw 
the bait in, and smash it. Sometimes, of course, 
they move away, drawing out the line, but that 
kind of a bite is exceptional. It is imperative to 
strike the fish when this vibration is felt. Not one 
in five bonefish is hooked. 

We have had two northers and the water grew 
so cold that it drove the fish out. The last two or 
three days have been warm and to-day it was hot. 
However, I did not expect the bonefish in yet, and 
when we went in bathing at flood-tide I was very 
glad to see two fish. I hurried out and got my rod 
and began to try. Presently I had a little strike. 
I waited and it was repeated; then I jerked and felt 
the fish. He made a wave and that was the last I 
knew of him. 

Reeling in, I looked at my bait, to find that it 
had been pretty badly chewed, but I fastened it on 
again and made another cast. I set down the rod. 
Then I went back after the bucket for the rest of 
the bait. Upon my return I saw the line jerking 
and I ran to the rod. I saw a little splash, and a big 
white tail of a bonefish stick out of the water. I 
put my thumb on the reel and jerked hard. In- 
stantly I felt the fish, heavy and powerful. He made 
a surge and then ran straight out. The line burned 
my thumb so I could not hold it. I put on the click 
and the fish made a swifter, harder run for at least 
a hundred yards, and he tore the hook out. 

This makes a number of fish that have gotten 
away from me in this manner. It is exasperating 
and difficult to explain. I have to use a pretty 
heavy sinker in order to cast the bait out. I have 

117 



TALES OF FISHES 

arranged this sinker, which has a hole through it, 
so that the line will run freely. This seems to work 
all right on the bite, but I am afraid it does not work 
after the fish is hooked. That sinker drags on the 
bottom. This is the best rigging that I can plan at 
the present stage of the game. I have an idea now 
that a bonefish should be hooked hard and then 
very carefully handled. 

I fished off the beach awhile in front of the cabin. 
We used both kinds of crabs, soldier and hermit. 
I fished two hours and a half, from the late rising 
tide to the first of the ebb, without a sign or sight 
of a fish. R. C. finally got tired and set his rod and 
went in bathing. Then it happened. I heard his 
reel singing and saw his rod nodding; then I made 
a dash for it. The fish was running straight out, 
heavy and fast, and he broke the line. 

This may have been caused by the heavy sinker 
catching in the weeds. We must do more planning 
to get a suitable rig for these bonefish. 

Day before yesterday R. C. and I went up to 
the Long Key point, and rowed in on the mangrove 
shoal where once before I saw so many bonefish. 
The tide was about one-quarter in, and there was 
a foot of water all over the flats. We anchored at 
the outer edge and began to fish. We had made 
elaborate preparations in the way of tackle, bait, 
canoe, etc., and it really would have been remarkable 
if we had had any luck. After a little while I dis- 
tinctly felt something at my hook, and upon jerking 
I had one splendid surge out of a good, heavy bone- 
fish. That was all that happened in that place. 

118 



BONEFISH 

It was near flood-tide when we went back. I 
stood up and kept a keen watch for little muddy 
places in the water, also bonefish. At last I saw 
several fish, and there we anchored. I fished on one 
side of the boat, and R. C. on the other. On two 
different occasions, feeling a nibble on his line, he 
jerked, all to no avail. The third time he yelled 
as he struck, and I turned in time to see the white 
thresh of a bonefish. He made a quick dash off to 
the side and then came in close to the boat, swim- 
ming around with short runs two or three times, 
and then, apparently tired, he came close. I made 
ready to lift him into the boat, when, lo and behold ! 
he made a wonderful run of fully three hundred feet 
before R. C. could stop him. Finally he was led to 
the boat, and turned out to be a fish of three and a 
half pounds. It simply made R. C. and me gasp 
to speak of what a really large bonefish might be 
able to do. There is something irresistible about 
the pursuit of these fish, and perhaps this is it. We 
changed places, and as a last try anchored in deeper 
water, fishing as before. This time I had a distinct 
tug at my line and I hooked a fish. He wiggled and 
jerked and threshed around so that I told R. C. that 
it was not a bonefish, but R. C. contended it was. 
Anyway, he came toward the boat rather easily 
until we saw him and he saw us, and then he made 
a dash similar to that of R. C.'s fish and he tore 
out the hook. This was the extent of our adventure 
that day, and we were very much pleased. 

Next morning we started out with a high northeast 
trade-wind blowing. Nothing could dampen our ardor. 

It was blowing so hard up at No. 2 viaduct that 

119 



TALES OF FISHES 

we decided to stay inside. There is a big flat there 
cut up by channels, and it is said to be a fine ground 
for bonefish. The tide was right and the water 
was clear, but even in the lee of the bank the wind 
blew pretty hard. We anchored in about three feet 
of water and began to fish. 

After a while we moved. The water was about 
a foot deep, and the bottom clean white marl, with 
little patches of vegetation. Crabs and crab-holes 
were numerous. I saw a small shark and a couple 
of rays. When we got to the middle of a big flat 
I saw the big, white, glistening tails of bonefish 
sticking out of the water. We dropped anchor and, 
much excited, were about to make casts, when R. C. 
lost his hat. He swore. We had to pull up anchor 
and go get the hat. Unfortunately this scared 
the fish. Also it presaged a rather hard-luck after- 
noon. In fishing, as in many other things, if the 
beginning is tragedy all will be tragedy, growing 
worse all the time. We moved around up above 
where I had seen these bonefish, and there we 
dropped anchor. No sooner had we gotten our baits 
overboard than we began to see bonefish tails off 
at quite some distance. The thing to do, of course, 
was to sit right there and be patient, but this was 
almost impossible for us. We moved again and 
again, but we did not get any nearer to the fish. 
Finally I determined that we would stick in one 
place. This we did, and the bonefish began to come 
around. When they would swim close to the boat 
and see us they would give a tremendous surge and 
disappear, as if by magic. But they always left a 
muddy place in the water. The speed of these fish 

120 



BONEFISH 

is beyond belief. I could not cast where I wanted 

to; I tried again and again. When I did get my 

bait off at a reasonable distance, I could feel crabs 

nibbling at it. These pests robbed us of many a 

good bait. One of them cut my line right in two. 

They seemed to be very plentiful, and that must 

be why the bonefish were plentiful, too. R. C. kept 

losing bait after bait, which he claimed was the work 

of crabs, but I rather believed it to be the work of 

bonefish. It was too windy for us to tell anything 

about the pressure of the line. It had to be quite 

a strong tug to be felt at all. Presently I felt one, 

and instead of striking at once I waited to see what 

would happen. After a while I reeled in to find my 

bait gone. Then I was consoled by the proof that 

a bonefish had taken the bait off for me. Another 

time three bonefish came along for my bait and stuck 

their tails up out of the water, and were evidently 

nosing around it, but I felt absolutely nothing on 

the line. When I reeled in the bait was gone. 

We kept up this sort of thing for two hours. I 

knew that we were doing it wrong. R. C. said bad 

conditions, but I claimed that these were only partly 

responsible for our failure. I knew that we moved 

about too much, that we did not cast far enough 

and wait long enough, and that by all means we 

should not have cracked bait on the bottom of the 

boat, and particularly we did not know when we 

had a bite! But it is one thing to be sure of a fact 

and another to be able to practise it. At last we 

gave up in despair, and upon paddling back toward 

the launch we saw a school of bonefish with their tails 

in the air. We followed them around for a while, 

121 



TALES OF FISHES 

apparently very much to their amusement. At sunset 
we got back to the launch and started for camp. 

This was a long, hard afternoon's work for noth- 
ing. However, it is my idea that experience is never 
too dearly bought. I will never do some things 
again, and the harder these fish are to catch, the 
more time and effort it takes — the more intelligence 
and cunning — all the more will I appreciate success 
if it ever does come. It is in the attainment of diffi- 
cult tasks that we earn our reward. There are sev- 
eral old bonefish experts here in camp, and they 
laughed when I related some of our experiences. 
Bonefishermen are loath to tell anything about their 
methods. This must be a growth of the difficult 
game. I had an expert bonefisherman tell me that 
when he was surprised while fishing on one of the 
shoals, he always dropped his rod and pretended 
to be digging for shells. And it is a fact that the 
bonefish guides at Metacumbe did not let any one 
get a line on their methods. They will avoid a bone- 
fishing-ground while others are there, and if they 
are surprised there ahead of others, they will pull 
up anchor and go away. May I be preserved from 
any such personal selfishness and reticence as this! 
One of these bonefish experts at the camp told me 
that in all his years of experience he had never gotten 
a bonefish bite. If you feel a tug, it is when the 
bonefish is ejecting the hook. Then it is too late. 
The bonefish noses around the bait and sucks it 
in without any apparent movement of the line. 
And that can be detected first by a little sagging of 
the line or by a little strain upon it. That is the 
time to strike. He also said that he always broke 

122 



BONEFISH 

his soldier crabs on a piece of lead to prevent the 
jar from frightening the fish. 

Doctor B. tells a couple of interesting experiences 
with bonefish. On one occasion he was fishing near 
another boat in which was a friend. The water 
was very clear and still, and he could see his friend's 
bait lying upon the sand. An enormous bonefish 
swam up and took the bait, and Doctor B. was so 
thrilled and excited that he could not yell. When 
the man hooked the fish it shot off in a straight- 
away rush, raising a ridge upon the water. It ran the 
length of the line and freed itself. Later Doctor B.'s 
friend showed the hook, that had been straightened 
out. They measured the line and found it to be five 
hundred and fifty-five feet. The bonefish had gone 
the length of this in one run, and they estimated 
that he would have weighed not less than fifteen 
pounds. 

On another occasion Dr. B saw a heavy bone- 
fish hooked. It ran straight off shore, and turning, 
ran in with such speed that it came shooting out 
upon dry land and was easily captured. These two 
instances are cases in point of the incredible speed 
and strength of this strange fish. 

R. C. had a splendid fight with a bonefish to-day. 
The wind was blowing hard and the canoe was not 
easy to fish out of. We had great difficulty in telling 
when we did have a bite. I had one that I know of. 
When R. C. hooked his fish it sheered off between the 
canoe and the beach and ran up-shore quite a long 
way. Then it headed out to sea and made a long 
run, and then circled. It made short, quick surges, 
each time jerking R. C.'s rod down and pulling the 

123 



TALES OF FISHES 

reel handle out of his fingers. He had to put on a 
glove. We were both excited and thrilled with the 
gameness of this fish. It circled the canoe three 
times, and tired out very slowly. When he got it 
close the very thing happened that I feared. It 
darted under the anchor rope and we lost it. This 
battle lasted about fifteen minutes, and afforded us an 
actual instance of the wonderful qualities of this fish. 

Yesterday It. C. hooked a bonefish that made a 
tremendous rush straight offshore, and never stopped 
until he had pulled out the hook. This must have 
been a very heavy and powerful fish. 

I had my taste of the same dose to-day. I felt a 
tiny little tug upon my line that electrified me and 
I jerked as hard as I dared. I realized that I had 
hooked some kind of fish, but, as it was wiggling and 
did not feel heavy, I concluded that I had hooked 
one of those pesky blowfish. But all of a sudden my 
line cut through the water and fairly whistled. I 
wound in the slack and then felt a heavy fish. He 
made a short plunge and then a longer one, straight 
out, making my reel scream. I was afraid to thumb 
the line, so I let him go. With these jerky plunges 
he ran about three hundred feet. Then I felt my 
line get fast, and, handing my rod to It. C, I slipped 
off my shoes and went overboard. I waded out, 
winding as I went, to find that the bonefish had 
fouled the line on a sponge on the bottom, and he 
had broken free just above the hook. 

Yesterday the fag end of the northeast gale still 
held on, but we decided to try for bonefish. Low 
tide at two o'clock. 

124 



BONEFISH 

I waded up-shore with the canoe, and R. C. walked. 
It was a hard job to face the wind and waves and 
pull the canoe. It made me tired and wet. 

When we got above the old camp the tide had 
started in. We saw bonefish tails standing up out 
of the water. Hurriedly baiting our hooks, we waded 
to get ahead of them. But we could not catch them 
wading, so went back to the canoe and paddled swiftly 
ahead, anchored, and got out to wade once more. 

R. C. was above me. We saw the big tail of one 
bonefish and both of us waded to get ahead of him. 
At last I made a cast, but did not see him any more. 
The wind was across my line, making a big curve 
in it, and I was afraid I could not tell a bite if I 
had one. Was about to reel in when I felt the faint 
tug. I swept my rod up and back, hard as I dared. 
The line came tight, I felt a heavy weight; a quiver, 
and then my rod was pulled down. I had hooked 
him. The thrill was remarkable. He took a short 
dash, then turned. I thought I had lost him. But 
he was running in. Frantically I wound the reel, 
but could not get in the slack. I saw my line coming, 
heard it hiss in the water, then made out the dark 
shape of a bonefish. He ran right at me — almost hit 
my feet. When he saw me he darted off with in- 
credible speed, making my reel scream. I feared the 
strain on the line, and I plunged through the water 
as fast as I could after him. He ran four hundred 
feet in that dash, and I ran fifty. Not often have I 
of late years tingled and thrilled and panted with 
such excitement. It was great. It brought back 
the days of boyhood. When he stopped that run 
I was tired and thoroughly wet. He sheered off as 

125 



TALES OF FISHES 

I waded and wound in. I got him back near me. 
He shot off in a shoal place of white mud where I 
saw him plainly, and he scared a school of bonefish 
that split and ran every way. My fish took to 
making short circles; I could not keep a tight line. 
Lost! I wound in fast, felt him again, then abso- 
lutely lost feel of him or sight of him. Lost again! 
My sensations Were remarkable, considering it was 
only a fish of arm's-length at the end of the line. 
But these bonefish rouse an angler as no other fish 
can. All at once I felt the line come tight. He was 
still on, now running inshore. 

The water was about a foot deep. I saw the 
bulge, or narrow wave, he made. He ran out a 
hundred feet, and had me dashing after him again. 
I could not trust that light line at the speed he swam, 
so I ran to release the strain. He led me inshore, 
then up-shore, and out toward sea again, all the time 
fighting with a couple of hundred feet of line out. 
Occasionally he would make a solid, thumping 
splash. He worked offshore some two hundred 
yards, where he led me in water half to my hips. 
I had to try to stop him here, and with fear and 
trepidation I thumbed the reel. The first pressure 
brought a savage rush, but it was short. He turned, 
and I wound him back and waded inshore. 

From that moment I had him beaten, although I 
was afraid of his short thumps as he headed away 
and tugged. Finally I had him within twenty feet 
circling around me, tired and loggy, yet still strong 
enough to require careful handling. 

He looked short and heavy, pale checked green 
and silver; and his staring black eye, set forward in 

126 



BONEFISH 

his pointed white nose, could be plainly seen. This 
fish made a rare picture for an angler. 

So I led him to the canoe and, ascertaining that 
I had him well hooked, I lifted him in. 

Never have I seen so beautiful a fish. A golden 
trout, a white sea-bass, a dolphin, all are beautiful, 
but not so exquisite as this bonefish. He seemed 
all bars of dazzling silver. His tail had a blue mar- 
gin and streaks of lilac. His lower (anal) fins were 
blazing with opal fire, and the pectoral fins were 
crystal white. His eye was a dead, piercing black, 
staring and deep. We estimated his weight. I held 
for six pounds, but R. C. shook his head. He did 
not believe that. But we agreed on the magnificent 
fight he had made. 

Then we waded up-shore farther and began to 
fish. In just five minutes I had the same kind of 
strike, slight, almost imperceptible, vibrating, and I 
hooked a fish exactly as I had the first one. He 
was light of weight, but swift as a flash. I played 
him from where I stood. This time I essayed with all 
skill to keep a taut line. It was impossible. Now I 
felt his weight and again only a slack line. This fish, 
too, ran right to my feet, then in a boiling splash 
sheered away. But he could not go far. I reeled 
him back and led him to the canoe. He was small, 
and the snmllness of him was such a surprise in con- 
trast to what his fight had led me to imagine he was. 

R. C. had one strike and broke his line on the jerk. 
We had to give up on account of sunset at hand. 

There was another hard thunder-storm last night. 
The last few days have begun the vernal equinox. 

127 



TALES OF FISHES 

It rained torrents all night and stopped at dawn. 
The wind was northeast and cool. Cloudy over- 
head, with purple horizon all around — a forbidding 
day. But we decided to go fishing, anyhow. We 
had new, delicate three-six tackles to try. About 
seven the wind died away. There was a dead calm, 
and the sun tried to show. Then another breeze 
came out of the east. 

We went up on the inside after bait, and had the 
luck to find some. Crossing the island, we came 
out at the old construction camp where we had left 
the canoe. By this time a stiff breeze was blowing 
and the tide was rising fast. We had our troubles 
paddling and poling up to the grove of cocoanuts. 
Opposite this we anchored and began to fish. 

Conditions were not favorable. The water was 
choppy and roily, the canoe bobbed a good deal, 
the anchors dragged, and we did not see any fish. 
All the same, we persevered. At length I had a 
bite, but pulled too late. We tried again for a while, 
only to be disappointed. Then we moved. 

We had to put the stern anchor down first and 
let it drag till it held and the canoe drifted around 
away from the wind, then we dropped the bow an- 
chor. After a time I had a faint feeling at the end 
of my line — an indescribable feeling. I jerked and 
hooked a bonefish. He did not feel heavy. He ran 
off, and the wind bagged my line and the waves also 
helped to pull out the hook. 

Following that we changed places several times, 
in one of which R. C. had a strike, but failed to hook 
the fish. Just opposite the old wreck on the shore 
I had another fish take hold, and, upon hooking him, 

128 



BONEFISH 

had precisely the same thing happen as in the first 
instance. I think the bag of my line, which I could 
not avoid, allowed the lead to sag down and drag 
upon the bottom. Of course when it caught the 
bonefish pulled free. 

In some places we found the water clearer than in 
others. Flood-tide had long come when we an- 
chored opposite the old camp. R. C. cast out upon 
a brown patch of weeds where we have caught some 
fine fish, and I cast below. Perhaps in five minutes 
or less R. C. swept up his rod. I saw it bend for- 
ward, down toward the water. He had hooked a 
heavy fish. The line hissed away to the right, and 
almost at once picked up a good-sized piece of sea- 
weed. 

"It's a big fish!" I exclaimed, excitedly. "Look 
at him go! . . . That seaweed will make you lose 
him. Let me wade out and pull it off?" 

"No! Let's take a chance. . . . Too late, anyhow! 
Gee! He's going! . . . He's got two hundred yards 
out!" 

Two-thirds of the line was off the reel, and the 
piece of seaweed seemed to be a drag on the fish. 
He slowed up. The line was tight, the rod bent. 
Suddenly the tip sprang back. We had seen that 
often before. 

"Gone!" said R. C, dejectedly. 

But I was not so sure of that, although I was 
hopeless. R. C. wound in, finding the line came 
slowly, as if weighted. I watched closely. We 
thought that was on account of the seaweed. But 
suddenly the reel began to screech. 

"I've got him yet!" yelled R. C, with joy. 

9 129 



TALES OF FISHES 

I was overjoyed, too, but I contained myself, for 
I expected dire results from that run. 

Zee! Zee! Zee! went the reel, and the rod 
nodded in time. 

"We must get rid of that seaweed or lose him. 
. . . Pull up your anchor with one hand. . . . Careful 
now." 

He did so, and quickly I got mine up. What 
ticklish business! 

"Keep a tight line!" I cautioned, as I backed the 
canoe hard with all my power. It was not easy to 
go backward and keep head on to the wind. The 
waves broke over the end of the canoe, splashing me 
in the face so I could taste and smell the salt. I 
made half a dozen shoves with the paddle. Then, 
nearing the piece of seaweed, I dropped my anchor. 

In a flash I got that dangerous piece of seaweed 
off R. C.'s line. 

"Good work! . . . Say, but that helps. . . . We'd 
never have gotten him," said R. C, beaming. I 
saw him look then as he used to in our sunfish, bent- 
pin days. 

"We've not got him yet," I replied, grimly. 
"Handle him as easily as you can." 

Then began a fight. The bonefish changed his 
swift, long runs, and took to slow sweeps to and 
fro, and whenever he was drawn a few yards closer 
he would give a solid jerk and get that much line 
back. There was much danger from other pieces 
of floating weed. R. C. maneuvered his line to miss 
them. All the time the bonefish was pulling doggedly. 
I had little hope we might capture him. At the end 
of fifteen minutes he was still a hundred yards from 

130 



BONEFISH 

the canoe and neither of us had seen him. Our 
excitement grew tenser every moment. The fish 
sheered to and fro, and would not come into shallower 
water. He would not budge. He took one long 
run straight up the shore, in line with us, and then 
circled out. This alarmed me, but he did not in- 
crease his lead. He came slowly around, yard by 
yard. R. C. reeled carefully, not hard enough to 
antagonize him, and after what seemed a long time 
got him within a hundred feet, and I had a glimpse 
of green and silver. Then off he ran again. How 
unbelievably swift! He had been close — then al- 
most the same instant he was far off. 

" I saw him ! On a wave !" yelled R. C. " That's 
no bonefish! What can he be, anyhow? I believe 
I've got a barracuda!" 

I looked and looked, but I could not see him. 

"No matter what you think you saw, that fish 
is a bonefish," I declared, positively. "The runs 
he made ! I saw silver and green ! Careful now. I 
know he's a bonefish. And he must be big." 

"Maybe it's only the wind and waves that make 
him feel so strong," replied R. C. 

"No! You can't fool me! Play him for a big 
one. He's been on twenty-three minutes now. 
Stand up — I'll steady the canoe — and watch for 
that sudden rush when he sees the canoe. The 
finish is in sight." 

It was an indication of a tiring fish that he made 
his first circle of the canoe, but too far out for us to 
see him. This circling a boat is a remarkable feat- 
ure, and I think it comes from the habit of a bone- 
fish of pulling broadside. I cautioned R. C. to 

131 



TALES OF FISHES 

avoid the seaweed and to lead him a little more, 
but to be infinitely careful not to apply too much 
strain. He circled us again, a few yards closer. 
The third circle he did not gain a foot. Then he was 
on his fourth lap around the canoe, drawing closer. 
On his fifth lap clear round us he came near as fifty 
feet. I could not resist standing up to see. I got 
a glimpse of him and he looked long. But I did not 
say anything to R. C. We had both hooked too 
many big bonefish that got away immediately. 
This was another affair. 

He circled us the sixth time. Six times! Then 
he came rather close. On this occasion he saw the 
canoe. He surged and sped out so swiftly that I 
was simply paralyzed. R. C. yelled something that 
had a note of admiration of sheer glory in the spirit 
of that fish. 

"Here's where he leaves us!" I echoed. 

But, as luck would have it, he stopped that run 
short of two hundred yards ; and turned broadside to 
circle slowly back, allowing R. C. to get in line. He 
swam slower this time, and did not make the heavy 
tugs. He came easily, weaving to and fro. R. C. 
got him to within twenty-five feet of the boat, yet 
still could not see him. It was my job to think quick 
and sit still with ready hands on the anchor rope. 
He began to plunge, taking a little line each time. 
Then suddenly I saw R. C.'s line coming toward us. 
I knew that would happen. 

"Now ! Look out ! Reel in fast !" I cried, tensely. 

As I leaned over to heave up the anchor, I saw 

the bonefish flashing nearer. At that instant of 

thrilling excitement and suspense I could not trust 

132 



BONEFISH 

my eyesight. There he was, swimming heavily, and 
he looked three feet long, thick and dark and heavy. 
I got the anchor up just as he passed under the 
canoe. Maybe I did not revel in pride of my 
quickness of thought and action! 

"Oh! He's gone under tne rope!" gasped R. C. 

"No!" I yelled, sharply. "Let your line run out! 
Put your tip down! We'll drift over your line." 

R. C. was dominated to do so, and presently the 
canoe drifted over where the line was stretched. 
That second ticklish moment passed. It had scared 
me. But I could not refrain from one sally. 

"I got the anchor up. What did you think I'd 
do?" 

R. C. passed by my remark. This was serious 
business for him. He looked quite earnest and 
pale. 

"Say! did you see him?" he ejaculated, looking 
at me. 

"Wish I hadn't," I replied. 

We were drifting inshore, which was well, pro- 
vided we did not drift too hard to suit the bonefish. 
He swam along in plain sight, and he seemed so 
big that I would not have gazed any longer if I 
could have helped it. 

I kept the canoe headed in, and we were not long 
coming to shallow water. Here the bonefish made 
a final dash for freedom, but it was short and feeble, 
compared with his first runs. He got about twenty 
feet away, then sheered, showing his broad, silver 
side. R. C. wound him in close, and an instant 
later the bow of the canoe grated on shore. 

"Now what?" asked R. C. as I stepped out into 

133 



TALES OF FISHES 

the water. "Won't it be risky to lift him into the 
canoe?" 

"Lift nothing! I have this all figured out. Lead 
him along." 

R. C. stepped out upon the beach while I was in 
the water. The bonefish lay on his side, a blaze 
of silver. I took hold of the line very gently and 
led the fish a little closer in. The water was about 
six inches deep. There were waves beating in — a 
miniature surf. And I calculated on the receding of 
a wave. Then with one quick pull I slid our beauti- 
ful quarry up on the coral sand. The instant he was 
out of the water the leader snapped. I was ready 
for this, too. But at that it was an awful instant! 
As the wave came back, almost deep enough to 
float the bonefish, I scooped him up. 

"He's ours!" I said, consulting my watch. "Thirty- 
three minutes! I give you my word that fight was 
comparable to ones I've had with a Pacific sword- 
fish." 

"Look at him!" R. C. burst out. "Look at him! 
When the leader broke I thought he was lost. I'm 
sick yet. Didn't you almost bungle that?" 

"Not a chance, R. C," I replied. "Had that all 
figured. I never put any strain on your line until 
the wave went back. Then I slid him out, the leader 
broke, and I scooped him up." 

R. C. stood gazing down at the glistening, opal- 
spotted fish. What a contrast he presented to any 
other kind of a fish! How many beautiful species 
have we seen lying on sand or moss or ferns, just 
come out of the water! But I could remember no 
other so rare as this bonefish. The exceeding diffi- 

134 



BONEFISH 

culty of the capture of this, our first really large 
bonefish, had a great deal to do with our admira- 
tion and pride. For the hard work of any achieve- 
ment is what makes it worth while. But this had 
nothing to do with the exquisite, indescribable beauty 
of the bonefish. He was long, thick, heavy, and 
round, with speed and power in every line; a sharp 
white nose and huge black eyes. The body of him 
was live, quivering silver, molten silver in the sun- 
light, crossed and barred with blazing stripes. The 
opal hues came out upon the anal fin, and the broad 
tail curled up, showing lavender tints on a back- 
ground of brilliant blue. He weighed eight pounds. 
Symbolic of the mysterious life and beauty in the 
ocean! Wonderful and prolific as nature is on land, 
she is infinitely more so in the sea. By the sun and 
the sea we live; and I shall never tire of seeking and 
studying the manifold life of the deep. 



VIII 

SOME RARE FISH 

T is very strange that the longer a man fishes the 

more there seems to be to learn. In my case this 
is one of the secrets of the fascination of the game. 
Always there will be greater fish in the ocean than 
I have ever caught. 

Five or six years ago I heard the name "waahoo" 
mentioned at Long Key. The boatmen were using 
it in a way to make one see that they did not be- 
lieve there was such a fish as a waahoo. The old 
conch fishermen had never heard the name. For 
that matter, neither had I. 

Later I heard the particulars of a hard and spec- 
tacular fight Judge Shields had had with a strange 
fish which the Smithsonian declared to be a waahoo. 
The name waahoo appears to be more familiarly 
associated with a shrub called burning-bush, also a 
Pacific coast berry, and again a small tree of the 
South called winged elm. When this name is men- 
tioned to a fisherman he is apt to think only fun is 
intended. To be sure, I thought so. 

In February, 1915, I met Judge Shields at Long 
Key, and, remembering his capture of this strange 
fish some years previous, I questioned him. He was 

136 



SOME RARE FISH 

singularly enthusiastic about the waahoo, and what 
he said excited my curiosity. Either the genial 
judge was obsessed or else this waahoo was a great 
fish. I was inclined to believe both, and then I 
forgot all about the matter. 

This year at Long Key I was trolling for sailfish 
out in the Gulf Stream, a mile or so southeast of 
Tennessee Buoy. It was a fine day for fishing, there 
being a slight breeze and a ripple on the water. 
My boatman, Captain Sam, and I kept a sharp 
watch on all sides for sailfish. I was using light 
tackle, and of course trolling, with the reel free run- 
ning, except for my thumb. 

Suddenly I had a bewildering swift and hard 
strike. What a wonder that I kept the reel from 
over-running! I certainly can testify to the burn 
on my thumb. 

Sam yelled "Sailfish!" and stooped for the lever, 
awaiting my order to throw out the clutch. 

Then I yelled: "Stop the boat, Sam! . . . It's no 
sailfish!" 

That strike took six hundred feet of line quicker 
than any other I had ever experienced. I simply 
did not dare to throw on the drag. But the in- 
stant the speed slackened I did throw it on, and 
jerked to hook the fish. I felt no weight. The line 
went slack. 

"No good!" I called, and began to wind in. 

At that instant a fish savagely broke water abreast 
of the boat, about fifty yards out. He looked long, 
black, sharp-nosed. Sam saw him, too. Then I 
felt a heavy pull on my rod and the line began to 
slip out. I jerked and jerked, and felt that I had 

137 



TALES OF FISHES 

a fish hooked. The line appeared strained and slow, 
which I knew to be caused by a long and wide bag 
in it. 

"Sam," I veiled, "the fish that jumped is on my 
line!" 

"No," replied Sam. 

It did seem incredible. Sam figured that no fish 
could run astern for two hundred yards and then 
quick as a flash break water abreast of us. But I 
knew it was true. Then the line slackened just as it 
had before. I began to wind up swiftly. 

"He's gone," I said. 

Scarcely had I said that when a smashing break 
in the water on the other side of the boat alarmed 
and further excited me. I did not see the fish. But 
I jumped up and bent over the stern to shove my 
rod deep into the water back of the propeller. I 
did this despite the certainty that the fish had 
broken loose. It was a wise move, for the rod was 
nearly pulled out of my hands. I lifted it, bent 
double, and began to wind furiously. So intent was 
I on the job of getting up the slack line that I scarcely 
looked up from the reel. 

"Look at him yump!" yelled Sam. 

I looked, but not quickly enough. 

"Over here! Look at him yump!" went on Sam. 

That fish made me seem like an amateur. I 
could not do a thing with him. The drag was light, 
and when I reeled in some line the fish got most of 
it back again. Every second I expected him to get 
free for sure. It was a miracle he did not shake the 
hook, as he certainly had a loose rein most all the 
time. The fact was he had such speed that I was 

138 



SOME RARE FISH 

unable to keep a strain upon him. I had no idea 
what kind of a fish it was. And Sam likewise 
was nonplussed. 

I was not sure the fish tired quickly, for I was 
so excited I had no thought of time, but it did not 
seem very long before I had him within fifty yards, 
sweeping in wide half-circles back of the boat. 
Occasionally I saw a broad, bright-green flash. 
When I was sure he was slowing up I put on the 
other drag and drew him closer. Then in the clear 
water we saw a strange, wild, graceful fish, the like 
of which we had never beheld. He was long, slen- 
der, yet singularly round and muscular. His color 
appeared to be blue, green, silver crossed by bars. 
His tail was big like that of a tuna, and his head 
sharper, more wolfish than a barracuda. He had a 
long, low, straight dorsal fin. We watched him 
swimming slowly to and fro beside the boat, and 
we speculated upon his species. But all I could 
decide was that I had a rare specimen for my 
collection. 

Sam was just as averse to the use of the gaff as 
I was. I played the fish out completely before Sam 
grasped the leader, pulled him close, lifted him in, 
and laid him down — a glistening, quivering, wonder- 
ful fish nearly six feet long. 

He was black opal blue; iridescent silver under- 
neath; pale blue dorsal; dark-blue fins and copper- 
bronze tail, with bright bars down his body. 

I took this thirty-six pound fish to be a sea-roe, a 
game fish lately noticed on the Atlantic seaboard. 
But I was wrong. One old conch fisherman who 
had been around the Keys for forty years had never 

139 



TALES OF FISHES 

seen such a fish. Then Mr. Schutt came and con- 
gratulated me upon landing a waahoo. 

The catching of this specimen interested me to 
inquire when I could, and find out for myself, more 
about this rare fish. 

Natives round Key West sometimes take it in 
nets and with the grains, and they call it "springer." 
It is well known in the West Indies, where it bears 
the name "queenfish." After studying this waahoo 
there were boatmen and fishermen at Long Key who 
believed they had seen schools of them. Mr. 
Schutt had observed schools of them on the reef, 
low down near the coral — fish that would run from 
forty to one hundred pounds. It made me thrill 
just to think of hooking a waahoo weighing any- 
where near a hundred pounds. Mr. Shannon testi- 
fied that he had once observed a school of waahoo 
leaping in the Gulf Stream — all very large fish. 
And once, on a clear, still day, I drifted over a 
bunch of big, sharp-nosed, game-looking fish that 
I am sure belonged to this species. 

The waahoo seldom, almost never, is hooked by 
a fisherman. This fact makes me curious. All fish 
have to eat, and at least two waahoo have been 
caught. Why not more? I do not believe that it 
is just a new fish. I see Palm Beach notices printed 
to the effect that sailfish were never heard of there 
before the Russo-Japanese War, and that the ex- 
plosions of floating mines drove them from their 
old haunts. I do not take stock in such theory as 
that. As a matter of fact, Holder observed the sail- 
fish (Histiophorus) in the Gulf Stream off the Keys 
many years ago. Likewise the waahoo must always 

140 



SOME RARE FISH 

have been there, absent perhaps in varying seasons. 
It is fascinating to ponder over tackle and bait and 
cunning calculated to take this rare denizen of the 
Gulf Stream. 

During half a dozen sojourns at Long Key I had 
heard of two or three dolphin being caught by lucky 
anglers who were trolling for anything that would 
bite. But until 1916 I never saw a dolphin. Cer- 
tainly I never hoped to take one of these rare and 
beautiful deep-sea fish. Never would have the luck. 
But in February I took two, and now I am forbidden 
the peculiar pleasure of disclaiming my fisherman's 
luck. 

Dolphin seems a singularly attractive name. It 
always made me think of the deep blue sea, of old 
tars, and tall-sparred, white-sailed brigs. It is the 
name of a fish beloved of all sailors. I do not 
know why, but I suspect that it is because the 
dolphin haunts ships and is an omen of good luck, 
and probably the most exquisitely colored fish in 
the ocean. 

One day, two miles out in the Gulf Stream, I 
got a peculiar strike, quite unlike any I had ever 
felt. A fisherman grows to be a specialist in strikes. 
This one was quick, energetic, jerky, yet strong. 
And it was a hungry strike. A fish that is hungry 
can almost always be hooked. I let this one run 
a little and then hooked him. He felt light, but 
savage. He took line in short, zigzag rushes. I 
fancied it was a bonita, but Sam shook his head. 
With about a hundred yards of line out, the fish 
leaped. He was golden. He had a huge, blunt, 

141 



TALES OF FISHES 

bow-shaped head and a narrow tail. The distance 
was pretty far, and I had no certainty to go by, yet 
I yelled: 

"Dolphin!" 

Sam was not so sure, but he looked mighty hope- 
ful. The fish sounded and ran in on me, then 
darted here and there, then began to leap and 
thresh upon the surface. He was hard to lead — a 
very strong fish for his light weight. I never 
handled a fish more carefully. He came up on a 
low swell, heading toward us, and he cut the water 
for fifty feet, with only his dorsal, a gleam of gold, 
showing in the sunlight. 

Next he jumped five times, and I could hear the 
wrestling sound he made when he shook himself. 
I had no idea what he might do next, and if he had 
not been securely hooked would have gotten off. 
I tried hard to keep the line taut and was not al- 
ways successful. Like the waahoo, he performed 
tricks new to me. One was an awkward diving leap 
that somehow jerked the line in a way to alarm 
me. When he quit his tumbling and rushing I led 
him close to the boat. 

This has always been to me one of the rewards 
of fishing. It quite outweighs that doubtful moment 
for me when the fish lies in the boat or helpless on 
the moss. Then I am always sorry, and more often 
than not let the fish go alive. 

My first sight of a dolphin near at hand was one 
to remember. The fish flashed gold — deep rich gold 
— with little flecks of blue and white. Then the 
very next flash there were greens and yellows — 
changing, colorful, brilliant bars. In that back- 

142 



SOME RARE FISH 

ground of dark, clear, blue Gulf Stream water this 
dolphin was radiant, golden, exquisitely beautiful. 
It was a shame to lift him out of the water. But — 

The appearance of the dolphin when just out of 
the water beggars description. Very few anglers 
in the world have ever had this experience. Not 
many anglers, perhaps, care for the beauty of a fish. 
But I do. And for the sake of those who feel the 
same way I wish I could paint him. But that seems 
impossible. For even while I gazed the fish changed 
color. He should have been called the chameleon 
of the ocean. He looked a quivering, shimmering, 
changeful creature, the color of golden-rod. He was 
the personification of beautiful color alive. The fact 
that he was dying made the changing hues. It gave 
me a pang — that I should be the cause of the death 
of so beautiful a thing. 

If I caught his appearance for one fleeting instant 
here it is : Vivid green-gold, spotted in brilliant blue, 
and each blue spot was a circle inclosing white. 
The long dorsal extending from nose to tail seemed 
black and purple near the head, shading toward the 
tail to rich olive green with splashes of blue. Just 
below the dorsal, on the background of gold, was a 
line of black dots. The fins were pearly silver be- 
neath, and dark green above. All the upper body 
was gold shading to silver, and this silver held ex- 
quisite turquoise-blue spots surrounded with white 
rings, in strange contrast to those ringed dots above. 
There was even a suggestion of pink glints. And 
the eyes were a deep purple with gold iris. 

The beauty of the dolphin resembled the mystery 
of the Gulf Stream — too illusive for the eye of man. 

143 



TALES OF FISHES 

More than once some benighted angler had men- 
tioned bonefish to me. These individuals always 
appeared to be quiet, retiring fishermen who hesi- 
tated to enlarge upon what was manifestly close to 
their hearts. I had never paid any attention to 
them. Who ever heard of a bonefish, anyway? 
The name itself did not appeal to my euphonious 
ear. 

But on this 1916 trip some faint glimmering must 
have penetrated the density of my cranium. I had 
always prided myself upon my conviction that I did 
not know it all, but, just the same, I had looked 
down from my lofty height of tuna and swordfish 
rather to despise little salt-water fish that could not 
pull me out of the boat. The waahoo and the dol- 
phin had opened my eyes. When some mild, quiet, 
soft-voiced gentleman said bonefish to me again I 
listened. Not only did I listen, I grew interested. 
Then I saw a couple of bonefish. They shone like 
silver, were singularly graceful in build, felt heavy 
as lead, and looked game all over. I made the mental 
observation that the man who had named them 
bonefish should have had half of that name applied 
to his head.' 

After that I was more interested in bonefish. I 
never failed to ask questions. But bonefishermen 
were scarce and as reticent as scarce. To sum up all 
of my inquiries, I learned or heard a lot that left me 
completely bewildered, so that I had no idea whether 
a bonefish was a joke or the grandest fish that swims. 
I deducted from the amazing information that if a 
fisherman sat all day in the blazing sun and had 
the genius to discover when he had a bite he was 

144 




AT LONG KEY, THE LONELY CORAL SHORE WHERE THE SUN SHINES 
WHITE ALL DAY AND THE STARS SHINE WHITE ALL NIGHT 



SOME RARE FISH 

learning. No one ever caught bonefish without days 
and days of learning. Then there were incidents 
calculated to disturb the peace of a contemplative 
angler like myself. 

One man with heavy tackle yanked some bone- 
fish out of the tide right in front of my cabin, quite 
as I used to haul out suckers. Other men tried it 
for days without success, though it appeared bone- 
fish were passing every tide. Then there was a 
loquacious boatman named Jimmy, who, when he 
had spare time, was always fishing for bonefish. 
He would tell the most remarkable tales about these 
fish. So finally I drifted to that fatal pass where I 
decided I wanted to catch bonefish. I imagined it 
would be easy for me. So did Captain Sam. Alas ! 
the vanity of man! 

Forthwith Captain Sam and I started out to 
catch soldier-crabs for bait. The directions we got 
from conch fishermen and others led us to assume 
that it would be an easy matter to find crabs. It 
was not! We had to go poking round mangrove 
roots until we learned how to catch the soldiers. 
If this had not been fun for me it would have been 
hard work. But ever since I was a little tad I have 
loved to chase things in the water. And upon this 
occasion it was with great satisfaction that I caught 
more bait than Captain Sam. Sam is something of a 
naturalist and he was always spending time over a 
curious bug or shell or object he found. Eventually 
we collected a bucketful of soldier-crabs. 

Next day, about the last of the ebb-tide, we tied 
a skiff astern and went up the Key to a cove 
where there were wide flats. While working our 
10 145 



TALES OF FISHES 

way inshore over the shoals we hit bottom several 
times and finally went aground. This did not worry 
us, for we believed the rising tide would float us. 

Then we got in the skiff and rowed toward the 
flats. I was rather concerned to see that apparently 
the tide was just about as high along this shore as 
it ever got. Sam shook his head. The tides were 
strange around the Keys. It will be high on the 
Gulf side and low on the Atlantic side, and some- 
times it will run one way through the channels for 
thirty-six hours. But we forgot this as soon as we 
reached the bonefish shoals. 

Sam took an oar and slowly poled inshore, while 
I stood up on a seat to watch for fish. The water 
was from six to eighteen inches deep and very clear 
and still. The bottom appeared to be a soft mud, 
gray, almost white in color, with patches of dark 
grass here and there. It was really marl, which is 
dead and decayed coral. 

Scarcely had we gotten over the edge of this shoal 
when we began to see things — big blue crabs, the 
kind that can pinch and that play havoc with the 
fishermen's nets, and impudent little gray crabs, 
and needle-fish, and small chocolate-colored sharks 
— nurse sharks, Sam called them — and barracuda 
from one foot to five feet in length, and whip-rays 
and sting-rays. It was exceedingly interesting and 
surprising to see all these in such shallow water. 
And they were all tame. 

Here and there we saw little boils of the water, 
and then a muddy patch where some fish had stirred 
the marl. Sam and I concluded these were made by 
bonefish. Still, we could not be sure. I can see a 

146 



SOME RARE FISH 

fish a long way in the water and I surely was alert. 
But some time elapsed and we had poled to within 
a few rods of the mangroves before I really caught 
sight of our coveted quarry. Then I saw five bone- 
fish, two of them large, between the boat and the 
mangroves. They were motionless. Somehow the 
sight of them was thrilling. They looked wary, 
cunning, game, and reminded me of gray wolves 
I had seen on the desert. Suddenly they vanished. 
It was incredible the way they disappeared. When 
we got up to the place where they had been there 
were the little swirls in the roiled water. 

Then Sam sighted two more bonefish that flashed 
away too swiftly for me to see. We stuck an oar 
down in the mud and anchored the boat. It seemed 
absolutely silly to fish in water a foot deep. But 
I meant to try it. Putting a crab on my hook, I 
cast off ten or a dozen yards, and composed myself 
to rest and watch. 

Certainly I expected no results. But it was at- 
tractive there. The wide flat stretched away, bor- 
dered by the rich, dark mangroves. Cranes and 
pelicans were fishing off the shoals, and outside rip- 
pled the green channel, and beyond that the dark- 
blue sea. The sun shone hot. There was scarcely 
any perceptible breeze. All this would have been 
enjoyable and fruitful if there had not been a fish 
within a mile. 

Almost directly I felt a very faint vibration of my 
line. I waited, expectantly, thinking that I might 
be about to have a bite. But the line slackened and 
nothing happened. 

There were splashes all around us and waves and 

147 



TALES OF FISHES 

ripples here and there, and occasionally a soundings 
thump. We grew more alert and interested. Sam 
saw a bonefish right near the boat. He pointed, 
and the fish was gone. After that we sat very still, 
I, of course, expecting a bite every moment. Pres- 
ently I saw a bonefish not six feet from the boat. 
Where he came from was a mystery, but he ap- 
peared like magic, and suddenly, just as magically, 
he vanished. 

" Funny fish," observed Sam, thoughtfully. Some- 
thing had begun to dawn upon Sam, as it had upon 
me. 

No very long time elapsed before we had seen a 
dozen bonefish, any one of which I could have reached 
with my rod. But not a bite! I reeled in to find 
my bait gone. 

"That bait was eaten off by crabs," I said to 
Sam, as I put on another. 

Right away after my cast I felt, rather than saw, 
that slight vibration of my line. I waited as before, 
and just as before the line almost imperceptibly 
slackened and nothing happened. 

Presently I did see a blue crab deliberately cut 
my line. We had to move the boat, pick up the 
lost piece of line, and knot it to the other. Then I 
watched a blue crab tear off my bait. But I failed 
to feel or see that faint vibration of my line. We 
moved the boat again, and again my line was cut. 
These blue crabs were a nuisance. Sam moved the 
boat again. We worked up the flat nearer where the 
little mangroves, scarce a foot high, lifted a few leaves 
out of the water. Whenever I stood up I saw 
bonefish, and everywhere we could hear them. 

148 



SOME RARE FISH 

Once more we composed ourselves to watch and 
await developments. 

In the succeeding hour I had many of the peculiar 
vibrations of my line, and, strange to see, every time 
I reeled in, part of my bait or all of it was gone. 
Still I fished on patiently for a bonefish bite. 

Meanwhile the sun lost its heat, slowly slanted to 
the horizon of mangroves, and turned red. It was 
about the hour of sunset and it turned out to be 
a beautiful and memorable one. Not a breath of 
air stirred. There was no sound except the screech 
of a gull and the distant splashes of wading birds. 
I had not before experienced silence on - or near salt 
water. The whole experience was new. We re- 
marked that the tide had not seemed to rise any 
higher. Everywhere were little swells, little waves, 
little wakes, all made by bonefish. The sun sank 
red and gold, and all the wide flat seemed on fire, 
with little mangroves standing clear and dark against 
the ruddy glow. And about this time the strangest 
thing happened. It might have been going on before, 
but Sam and I had not seen it. All around us were 
bonefish tails lifted out of the water. They glistened 
like silver. When a bonefish feeds his head is down 
and his tail is up, and, the water being shallow, the 
upper fluke of his tail stands out. If I saw one I 
saw a thousand. It was particularly easy to see 
them in the glassy water toward the sunset. 

A school of feeding bonefish came toward us. I 
counted eleven tails out of the water. They were 
around my bait. Now or never, I thought, waiting 
frantically ! But they went on feeding — passed over 
my line — and came so near the boat that I could 

149 



TALES OF FISHES 

plainly see the gray shadow shapes, the long, sharp 
noses, the dark, staring eyes. I reeled in to find my 
bait gone, as usual. It was exasperating. 

We had to give up then, as darkness was not far 
off. Sam was worried about the boat. He rowed 
while I stood up. Going back, I saw bonefish in twos 
and fours and droves. We passed school after 
school. They had just come in from the sea, for 
they were headed up the flat. I saw many ten- 
pound fish, but I did not know enough about bone- 
fish then to appreciate what I saw. However, I did 
appreciate their keen sight and wariness and won- 
derful speed and incredible power. Some of the 
big surges made me speculate what a heavy bone- 
fish might do to light tackle. Sam and I were dis- 
appointed at our luck, somewhat uncertain whether 
it was caused by destructive work of crabs or the 
wrong kind of bait or both. It scarcely occurred 
to us to inquire into our ignorance. 

We found the boat hard and fast in the mud. 
Sam rowed me ashore. I walked back to camp, and 
he stayed all night, and all the next day, waiting 
for the tide to float the boat. 

After that on several days we went up to the 
flat to fish for bonefish. But we could not hit the 
right tide or the fish were not there. At any rate, 
we did not see any or get any bites. 

Then I began to fish for bonefish in front of my 
cottage. Whenever I would stick my rod in the 
sand and go in out of the hot sun a bonefish would 
take my bait and start off to sea. Before I could 
get back he would break something. 

This happened several times before I became so 

150 



SOME RARE FISH 

aroused that I determined to catch one of these 
fish or die. I fished antt fished. I went to sleep in 
a camp-chair and absolutely ruined my reputation 
as an ardent fisherman. One afternoon, just after 
I had made a cast, I felt the same old strange vibra- 
tion of my line. I was not proof against it and I 
jerked. Lo! I hooked a fish that made a savage 
rush, pulled my bass-rod out of shape, and took all 
my line before I could stop him. Then he swept 
from side to side. I reeled him in, only to have 
him run out again and again and yet again. I 
knew I had a heavy fish. I expected him to break 
my line. I handled him gingerly. Imagine my 
amaze to beach a little fish that weighed scarcely 
more than two pounds! But it was a bonefish — a 
glistening mother-of-pearl bonefish. Somehow the 
obsession of these bonefishermen began to be less 
puzzling to me. Sam saw me catch this bonefish, 
and he was as amazed as I was at the gameness and 
speed and strength of so small a fish. 

Next day a bonefisherman of years' experience 
answered a few questions I put to him. No, he 
never fished for anything except bonefish. They 
were the hardest fish in the sea to make bite, the 
hardest to land after they were hooked. Yes, that 
very, very slight vibration of the line — that strange 
feeling rather than movement — was the instant 
of their quick bite. An instant before or an instant 
after would be fatal. 

It dawned upon me then that on my first day I 
must have had dozens of bonefish bites, but I did 
not know it! I was humiliated — I was taken down 
from my lofty perch — I was furious. I thanked the 

151 



TALES OF FISHES 

gentleman for his enlightenment and went away in 
search of Sam. I told Sam, and he laughed — 
laughed at me and at himself. After all, it was a 
joke. And I had to laugh too. It is good for a 
fisherman to have the conceit taken out of him — if 
anything can accomplish that. Then Sam and I 
got our heads together. What we planned and 
what we did must make another story. 



IX 

SWORDFISH 

From records of the New York Bureau of Fisheries, 
by G. B. Goode 

THE swordfish, Xiphias gladius, ranges along the 
Atlantic coast of America from Jamaica (lati- 
tude 18° N.)j Cuba, and the Bermudas, to Cape 
Breton (latitude 47° N.). It has not been seen at 
Greenland, Iceland, or Spitzbergen, but occurs, ac- 
cording to Collett, at the North Cape (latitude 71°). 
It is abundant along the coasts of western Europe, 
entering the Baltic and the Mediterranean. I can 
find no record of the species on the west coast of 
Africa south of Cape Verde, though Lutken, who 
may have access to facts unknown to me, states 
that they occur clear down to the Cape of Good 
Hope, South Atlantic in mid-ocean, to the west 
coast of South America and to southern California 
(latitude 34°), New Zealand, and in the Indian 
Ocean off Mauritius. 

The names of the swordfish all have reference to 
that prominent feature, the prolonged snout. The 
"swordfish" of our own tongue, the "zwardfis" of 
the Hollander, the Italian "sofia" and "pesce- 
spada," the Spanish "espada" and "espadarte," 

153 



TALES OF FISHES 

varied by "pez do spada" in Cuba, and the French 
"espadon," "dard," and "epee de mer," are simply 
variations of one theme, repetitions of the "gladius" 
of ancient Italy and "xiphius," the name by which 
Aristotle, the father of zoology, called the same fish 
twenty-three hundred years ago. The French "em- 
pereur" and the "imperador" and the "ocean king- 
fish" of the Spanish and French West Indies, carry 
out the same idea, for the Roman Emperor was al- 
ways represented holding a drawn sword in his 
hand. The Portuguese names are "aguhao," mean- 
ing "needle," or "needle-fish." 

This species has been particularly fortunate in 
escaping the numerous redescriptions to which al- 
most all widely distributed forms have been sub- 
jected. By the writers of antiquity it was spoken 
of under its Aristotelian name, and in the tenth 
edition of his Systema Naturce, at the very inception 
of binomial nomenclative, Sinnaeus called it Xiphias 
gladius. By this name it has been known ever 
since, and only one additional name is included in 
its synonym, Xiphias rondeletic of Leach. 

The swordfish has been so long and so well known 
that its right to its peculiar name has seldom been 
infringed upon. The various species of Tetrapturus 
have sometimes shared its title, and this is not to 
be wondered at, since they closely resemble Xiphias 
gladius, and the appellative has frequently been ap- 
plied to the family Xiphiidce — the swordfish — which 
includes them all. 

The name "bill-fish," usually applied to our 
Tetrapturus albidus, a fish of the swordfish family, 
often taken on our coast, must be pronounced ob- 

154 



SWORDFISH 

jectionable, since it is in many districts used for 
various species of Belonidse, the garfishes or green- 
bones (Belone truncata and others), which are mem- 
bers of the same faunas. Spearfish is a much better 
name. 

The "sailfish," Hishiophorus americanus, is called 
by sailors in the South the "boohoo" or "woohoo." 
This is evidently a corrupted form of "guebum," 
a name, apparently of Indian origin, given to the 
same fish in Brazil. It is possible that Tetrapturus 
is also called "boohoo," since the two genera are 
not sufficiently unlike to impress sailors with their 
differences. Blecker states that in Sumatra the 
Malays call the related species, H. gladius, by the 
name "Joohoo" (Juhu), a curious coincidence. 
The names may have been carried from the Malay 
Archipelago to South America, or vice versa, by 
mariners. 

In Cuba the spearfish are called "aguja" and 
"aguja de palada"; the sailfish, "aguja prieta" or 
"aguja valadora"; Tetrapturus albidus especially 
known as the "aguja blanca," T. albidus as the 
"aguja de castro." 

In the West Indies and Florida the scabbard- 
fish or silvery hairy-tail, Trichiurus lepturus, a form 
allied to the Xiphias, though not resembling it 
closely in external appearance, is often called "sword- 
fish." The body of this fish is shaped like the blade 
of a saber, and its skin has a bright, metallic luster 
like that of polished steel, hence the name. 

Swordfish are most abundant on the shoals near 
the shore and on the banks during the months of 
July and August; that they make their appearance 

155 



TALES OF FISHES 

on the frequented cruising-grounds between Montauk 
Point and the eastern part of Georges Banks some- 
time between the 25th of May and the 20th of June, 
and that they remain until the approach of cold 
weather in October and November. The dates of 
the first fish on the cruising-grounds referred to are 
recorded for three years, and are reasonably reliable : 
in 1875, June 20th; in 1877, June 10th; in 1878, 
June 14 th. 

South of the cruising-grounds the dates of arrival 
and departure are doubtless farther apart, the 
season being shorter north and east. There are no 
means of obtaining information, since the men en- 
gaged in this fishery are the only ones likely to re- 
member the dates when the fish are seen. 

The swordfish comes into our waters in pursuit 
of its food. At least this is the most probable 
explanation of its movements, since the duties of 
reproduction appear to be performed elsewhere. 
Like the tuna, the bluefish, the bonito, and the 
squiteague, they pursue and prey upon the schools 
of menhaden and mackerel, which are so abundant 
in the summer months. "When you see swordfish, 
you may know that mackerel are about," said an old 
fisherman to me. "When you see the fin-back 
whale following food, there you may find swordfish," 
said another.. The swordfish also feeds upon squid, 
which are at times abundant on our banks. 

To what extent this fish is amenable to the in- 
fluences of temperature is an unsolved problem. We 
are met at the outset by the fact that they are fre- 
quently taken on trawl lines which are set at the 
depth of one hundred fathoms or more, on the off- 

156 



SWORDFISH 

shore banks. We know that the temperature of the 
water in these localities and at that depth is sure to 
be less than 40° Fahr. How is this fact to be recon- 
ciled with the known habits of the fish, that it pre- 
fers the warmest weather of summer and swims 
at. the surface in water of temperature ranging from 
55° to 70°, sinking when cool winds blow below? 
The case seemed clear enough until the inconvenient 
discovery was made that swordfish are taken on 
bottom trawl lines. In other respects their habits 
agree closely with those of the mackerel tribe, all 
the members of which seem sensitive to slight 
changes in temperature, and which, as a rule, pre- 
fer temperature in the neighborhood of 50° or more. 

The appearance of the fish at the surface depends 
largely upon the temperature. They are seen only 
upon quiet summer days, in the morning before ten 
or eleven o'clock, and in the afternoon about four 
o'clock. Old fishermen say that they rise when the 
mackerel rise, and when the mackerel go down they 
go down also. 

Regarding the winter abode of the swordfish, con- 
jecture is useless. I have already discussed this 
question at length with reference to the menhaden 
and mackerel. With the swordfish the conditions 
are very different. The former are known to spawn 
in our waters, and the schools of young ones follow 
the old ones in toward the shores. The latter do 
not spawn in our waters. We cannot well believe 
that they hibernate, nor is the hypothesis of a so- 
journ in the middle strata of mid-ocean exactly 
tenable. Perhaps they migrate to some distant 
region, where they spawn. But then the spawning- 

157 



TALES OF FISHES 

time of this species in the Mediterranean, as is re- 
lated in a subsequent paragraph, appears to occur 
in the summer months, at the very time when the 
swordfish are most abundant in our own waters, 
apparently feeling no responsibility for the per- 
petuation of their species. 

The swordfish, when swimming at the surface, 
usually allows its dorsal fin and the upper lobe of its 
caudal fin to be visible, projecting out of the water. 
It is this habit which enables the fisherman to detect 
the presence of the fish. It swims slowly along, and 
the fishing-schooner with a light breeze finds no diffi- 
culty in overtaking it. When excited its motions 
are very rapid and nervous. Swordfish are some- 
times seen to leap entirely out of the water. Early 
writers attributed this habit to the tormenting pres- 
ence of parasites, but this theory seems hardly neces- 
sary, knowing what we do of its violent exertions at 
other times. The pointed head, the fins of the back 
and abdomen snugly fitting into grooves, the ab- 
sence of ventrals, the long, lithe, muscular body, 
sloping slowly to the tail, fits it for the most rapid 
and forceful movement through the water. Prof. 
Richard Owen, testifying in an England court in 
regard to its power, said: 

"It strikes with the accumulated force of fifteen 
double-handed hammers. Its velocity is equal to 
that of a swivel shot, and is as dangerous in its effect 
as a heavy artillery projectile." 

Many very curious instances are on record of the 
encounter of this fish with other fishes, or of their 
attacks upon ships. What can be the inducement 
for it to attack objects so much larger than itself 

158 



SWORDFISH 

is hard to surmise. We are all familiar with the 
couplet from Oppian: 

Nature her bounty to his mouth confined, 
Gave him a sword, but left unarmed his mind. 

It surely seems as if temporary insanity some- 
times takes possession of the fish. It is not strange 
that when harpooned it should retaliate by attack- 
ing its assailant. An old swordfisherman told Mr. 
Blackman that his vessel had been struck twenty 
times. There are, however, many instances of en- 
tirely unprovoked assaults on vessels at sea. Many 
of these are recounted in a later portion of this 
memoir. Their movements when feeding are dis- 
cussed below as well as their alleged peculiarities 
of movement during breeding season. 

It is the universal testimony of our fishermen that 
two are never seen swimming close together. Cap- 
tain Ashby says that they are always distant from 
each other at least thirty or forty feet. 

The pugnacity of the swordfish has become a by- 
word. Without any special effort on my part, 
numerous instances of their attacks upon vessels 
have in the last ten years found their way into the 
pigeonhole labeled "Swordfish." 

iElian says (b. XXXII, c. 6) that the swordfish has 
a sharp-pointed snout with which it is able to pierce 
the sides of a ship and send it to the bottom, in- 
stances of which have been known near a place 
in Mauritania known as Cotte, not far from the river 
Sixus, on the African side of the Mediterranean. 
He describes the sword as like the beak of the ship 

159 



TALES OF FISHES 

known as the trireme, which was rowed with three 
banks of oars. 

The London Daily News of December 11, 1868, 
contained the following paragraph, which emanated, 
I suspect, from the pen of Prof. R. A. Proctor. 

Last Wednesday the court of common pieas — rather a strange 
place, by the by, for inquiring into the natural history of fishes 
— was engaged for several hours in trying to determine under 
what circumstances a swordfish might be able to escape scot- 
free after thrusting his snout into the side of a ship. The gal- 
lant ship Dreadnaught, thoroughly repaired and classed Al at 
Lloyd's, had been insured for £3,000 against all risks of the 
sea. She sailed on March 10, 1864, from Columbo for London. 
Three days later the crew, while fishing, hooked a swordfish. 
Xiphias, however, broke the line, and a few moments after 
leaped half out of the water, with the object, it should seem, 
of taking a look at his persecutor, the Dreadnaught. Prob- 
ably he satisfied himself that the enemy was some abnormally 
large cetacean, which it was his natural duty to attack forth- 
with. Be this as it may, the attack was made, and the next 
morning the captain was awakened with the unwelcome in- 
telligence that the ship had sprung a leak. She was taken 
back to Columbo, and thence to Cochin, where she hove down. 
Near the keel was found a round hole, an inch in diameter, 
running completely through the copper sheathing and planking. 

As attacks by swordfish are included among sea risks, the 
insurance company was willing to pay the damages claimed 
by the owners of the ship, if only it could be proved that the 
hole had been really made by a swordfish. No instances had 
ever been recorded in which a swordfish which had passed its 
beak through three inches of stout planking could withdraw 
without the loss of its sword. Mr. Buckland said that fish have 
no power of "backing," and expressed his belief that he could 
hold a swordfish by the beak; but then he admitted that the 
fish had considerable lateral power, and might so "wriggle 
its sword out of the hold." And so the insurance company 
will have to pay nearly £600 because an ill-tempered fish ob- 

160 



SWORDFISH 

jected to be hooked and took its revenge by running full tilt 
against copper sheathing and oak planking. 

The food of the swordfish is of a very mixed 
nature. 

Doctor Fleming found the remains of sepias in its 
stomach, and also small fishes. Oppian stated that 
it eagerly devours the Hippuris (probably Cory- 
phcena). A specimen taken off Saconnet July 22, 
1875, had in its stomach the remains of small fish, 
perhaps Stromateus triacanihus, and jaws of a squid, 
perhaps Loligo pealin. Their food in the western 
Atlantic consists for the most part of the common 
schooling species of fishes. They feed on men- 
haden, mackerel, bonitoes, bluefish, and other 
species which swim in close schools. Their habits 
of feeding have often been described to me by old 
fishermen. They are said to rise beneath the school 
of small fish, striking to the right and left with their 
swords until they have killed a number, which they 
then proceed to devour. Menhaden have been seen 
floating at the surface which have been cut nearly 
in twain by a blow of a sword. Mr. John H. Thomp- 
son remarks that he has seen them apparently 
throw the fish in the air, catching them on the fall. 

Capt. Benjamin Ashby says that they feed on 
mackerel, herring, whiting, and menhaden. He has 
found half a bucketful of small fish of these kind in 
the stomach of one swordfish. He has seen them 
in the act of feeding. They rise perpendicularly out 
of the water until the sword and two-thirds of the 
remainder of the body are exposed to view. He 
has seen a school of herring at the surface on Georges 
Banks as closely as they could be packed. A sword- 

11 161 



TALES OF FISHES 

fish came up through the dense mass and fell flat 
on its side, striking many fish with the sides of its 
sword. He has at one time picked up as much as 
a bushel of herrings thus killed by a swordfish on 
Georges Banks. 

But little is known regarding their time and 
place of breeding. They are said to deposit their 
eggs in large quantities on the coasts of Sicily, and 
European writers give their spawning-time occurring 
the latter part of spring and the beginning of summer. 
In the Mediterranean they occur of all sizes from 
four hundred pounds down, and the young are so 
plentiful as to become a common article of food. 

M. Raymond, who brought to Cuvier a specimen 
of aistiophorn four inches long, taken in January, 
1829, in the Atlantic, between the Cape of Good 
Hope and France, reported that there were good 
numbers of young sailfish in the place where this 
was taken. 

Meunier, quoting Spollongain, states that the 
swordfish does not approach the coast of Sicily ex- 
cept in the season of reproduction; the males are 
then seen pursuing the females. It is a good time 
to capture them, for when the female has been 
taken the male lingers near and is easily approached. 
The fish are abundant in the Straits of Messina from 
the middle of April to the middle of September; 
early in the season they hug the Calabrian shore, 
approaching from the north; after the end of June 
they are most abundant on the Sicilian shore, ap- 
proaching from the south. 

From other circumstances, it seems certain that 
there are spawning-grounds in the seas near Sicily 

162 



SWORDFISH 

and Genoa, for from November to the 1st of March 
young ones are taken in the Straits of Messina, ran- 
ging in weight from half a pound to twelve pounds. 

In the Mediterranean, as has been already stated, 
the young fish are found from November to March, 
and here from July to the middle of September the 
male fish are seen pursuing the female over the 
shoals, and at this time the males are easily taken. 
Old swordfish fishermen, Captain Ashby and Cap- 
tain Kirby, assure me that on our coast, out of 
thousands of specimens they have taken, they have 
never seen one containing eggs. I have myself dis- 
sected several males, none of which were near breed- 
ing-time. In the European waters they are said often 
to be seen swimming in pairs, male and female. 
Many sentimental stories were current, especially 
among the old writers, concerning the conjugal 
affection and unselfish devotion of the swordfish, 
but they seem to have originated in the imagina- 
tive brain of the naturalist rather than in his per- 
ceptive faculties. It is said that when the female 
fish is taken the male seems devoid of fear, approaches 
the boat, and allows himself easily to be taken, but 
if this be true, it appears to be the case only in the 
height of the breeding season, and is easily under- 
stood. I cannot learn that two swordfish have ever 
been seen associated together in our waters, though 
I have made frequent and diligent inquiry. 

There is no inherent improbability, however, in 
this story regarding the swordfish in Europe, for the 
same thing is stated by Professor Poey as the result 
upon the habits of Tetrapturus. 

The only individual of which we have the exact 

163 



TALES OF FISHES 

measurements was taken off Saconnet, Rhode 
Island, July 23, 1874. This was seven feet seven 
inches long, weighing one hundred and thirteen 
pounds. Another, taken off No Man's Land, July 
20, 1875, and cast in plaster for the collection of 
the National Museum, weighed one hundred and 
twenty pounds and measured about seven feet. 
Another, taken off Portland, August 15, 1878, was 
3,999 millimeters long and weighed about six hun- 
dred pounds. Many of these fish doubtless attain the 
weight of four and five hundred pounds, and some 
perhaps grow to six hundred; but after this limit 
is reached, I am inclined to believe larger fish are 
exceptional. Newspapers are fond of recording the 
occurrence of giant fish, weighing one thousand 
pounds and upward, and old sailors will in good 
faith describe the enormous fish which they saw at 
sea, but could not capture; but one well-authenti- 
cated instance of accurate weighing is much more 
valuable. The largest one ever taken by Capt. 
Benjamin Ashby, for twenty years a swordfish 
fisherman, was killed on the shoals back of Edgar- 
town, Massachusetts. When salted it weighed six 
hundred and thirty-nine pounds. Its live weight 
must have been as much as seven hundred and fifty 
or eight hundred. Its sword measured nearly six 
feet. This was an extraordinary fish among the 
three hundred or more taken by Captain Ashby in 
his long experience. He considers the average size 
to be about two hundred and fifty pounds dressed, 
or five hundred and twenty-five alive. Captain 
Martin, of Gloucester, estimated the average size at 
three to four hundred pounds. The largest known 

164 



SWORDFXSH 

to Captain Michaux weighed six hundred and twenty- 
eight. The average about Block Island he con- 
siders to be two hundred pounds. 

The size of the smallest swordfish taken on our 
eastern coast is a subject of much deeper interest, 
for it throws light on the time and place of breed- 
ing. There is some difference of testimony regard- 
ing the average size, but all fishermen with whom I 
have talked agree that very small ones do not find 
their way into our shore waters. Numerous very 
small specimens have, however, been already taken 
by the Fish Commission at sea, off our middle and 
southern coast. 

Capt. John Rowe has seen one which did not weigh 
more than seventy-five pounds when taken out of 
the water. 

Capt. R. H. Hurlbert killed near Block Island, in 
July, 1877, one which weighed fifty pounds and 
measured about two feet without its sword. 

Captain Ashby's smallest weighed about twenty- 
five pounds when dressed; this he killed off No 
Man's Land. He tells me that a Bridgeport smack 
had one weighing sixteen pounds (or probably 
twenty-four when alive), and measuring eighteen 
inches without its sword. 

In August, 1878, a small specimen of the mackerel- 
snark, Lamna cornubica, was captured at the mouth 
of Gloucester Harbor. In its nostril was sticking a 
sword, about three inches long, of a young swordfish. 
When this was pulled out the blood flowed freely, 
indicating that the wound was recent- The fish to 
which this sword belonged cannot have exceeded 
ten or twelve inches in length. Whether the small 

165 



TALES OF FISHES 

swordfish met with its misfortune in our waters, or 
whether the shark brought this trophy from beyond 
the sea, is an unsolved problem. 

Lutken speaks of a very young individual taken 
in the Atlantic, latitude 32° 50' N., 74° 19' W. 
This must be about one hundred and fifty miles 
southeast of Cape Hatteras. 

For many years from three to six hundred of 
these fish have been taken annually on the New 
England coast. It is not unusual for twenty-five 
or more to be seen in the course of a single day's 
cruising, and sometimes as many as this are visible 
from the masthead at one time. Captain Ashby 
saw twenty at one time, in August, 1889, between 
Georges Banks and the South Shoals. One Glouces- 
ter schooner, Midnight, Capt. Alfred Wixom, took 
fourteen in one day on Georges Banks in 1877. 

Capt. John Rowe obtained twenty barrels, or four 
thousand pounds, of salt fish on one trip to Georges 
Banks; this amount represents twenty fish or more. 
Captain Ashby has killed one hundred and eight 
swordfish in one year; Capt. M. C. Tripp killed 
about ninety in 1874. 

Such instances as these indicate in a general way 
the abundance of the swordfish. A vessel cruising 
within fifty miles of our coast, between Cape May 
and Cape Sable, during the months of June, July, 
August, and September, cannot fail, on a favorable 
day, to come in sight of several of them. Mr. Earll 
states that the fishermen of Portland never knew 
them more abundant than in 1879. This is prob- 
ably due in part to the fact that the fishery there is 
of a very recent origin. 

166 



SWORDFISH 

There is no evidence of any change in their abun- 
dance, either increase or decrease. Fishermen agree 
that they are as plentiful as ever, nor can any change 
be anticipated. The present mode does not destroy 
them in any considerable numbers, each individual 
fish being the object of special pursuit. The soli- 
tary habits of the species will always protect them 
from wholesale capture, so destructive to schooling 
fish. Even if this were not the case, the evidence 
proves that spawning swordfish do not frequent our 
waters. When a female shad is killed, thousands 
of possible young die also. The swordfish taken by 
our fishermen carry no such precious burden. 

"The small swordfish is very good meat," remarked 
Josselyn, in writing of the fishes of England in the 
seventeenth century. Since Josselyn probably never 
saw a young swordfish, unless at some time he had 
visited the Mediterranean, it is fair to suppose that 
his information was derived from some Italian 
writer. 

It is, however, a fact that the flesh of the sword- 
fish, though somewhat oily, is a very acceptable 
article of food. Its texture is coarse; the thick, 
fleshy, muscular layers cause it to resemble that of 
the halibut in constituency. Its flavor is by many 
considered fine, and is not unlike that of the blue- 
fish. Its color is gray. The meat of the young 
fish is highly prized on the Mediterranean, and is 
said to be perfectly white, compact, and of delicate 
flavor. Swordfish are usually cut up into steaks — 
thick slices across the body — and may be broiled 
or boiled. 

The apparatus ordinarily employed for the capture 

167 



TALES OF FISHES 

of the swordfish is simple in the extreme. It is the 
harpoon with the detachable head. When the fish 
is struck, the head of the harpoon remains in the 
body of the fish, and carries with it a light rope 
which is either made fast or held by a man in a 
small boat, or is attached to some kind of a buoy, 
which is towed through the water by the struggling 
fish, and which marks its whereabouts after death. 

The harpoon consists of a pole fifteen or sixteen 
feet in length, usually of hickory or some other hard 
wood, upon which the bark has been left, so that the 
harpooner may have a firmer hand-grip. This pole 
is from an inch and a half to two inches in diameter, 
and at one end is provided with an iron rod, or 
"shank," about two feet long and five-eighths of an 
inch in diameter. This "shank" is fastened to the 
pole by means of a conical or elongated, cuplike ex- 
pansion at one end, which fits over the sharpened 
end of the pole, to which it is secured by screws or 
spikes. A light line extends from one end of the 
pole to the point where it joins the "shank" and in 
this line is tied a loop by which is made fast another 
short line which secures the pole to the vessel or 
boat, so that when it is thrown at the fish it cannot 
be lost. 

Upon the end of the "shank" fits the head of 
the harpoon, known by the names swordfish-iron, 
lily-iron, and Indian dart. The form of this weapon 
has undergone much variation. The fundamental 
idea may very possibly have been derived from the 
Indian fish-dart, numerous specimens of which are 
in the National Museum, from various tribes of 
Indians of New England, British America, and the 

168 



SWORDFISH 

Pacific. However various the modifications may 
have been, the similarity of the different shapes is 
no less noteworthy from the fact that all are pecul- 
iarly American. In the enormous collection of fish- 
ery implements of all lands at the late exhibition at 
Berlin, nothing of the kind could be found. What 
is known to whalers as a toggle-harpoon is a modi- 
fication of the lily-iron, but so greatly changed by 
the addition of a pivot by which the head of the 
harpoon is fastened to the shank that it can hardly 
be regarded as the same weapon. The lily-iron is, 
in principle, exactly what a whaleman would de- 
scribe by the word "toggle." It consists of a two- 
pointed piece of metal, having in the center, at one 
side, a ring or socket the axis of which is parallel 
with the long diameter of the implement. In this 
is inserted the end of the pole-shank, and to it or 
near it is also attached the harpoon-line. When the 
iron has once been thrust point first through some 
solid substance, such as the side of a fish, and is 
released upon the other side by the withdrawal of 
the pole from the socket, it is free, and at once 
turns its long axis at right angle to the direction 
in which the harpoon-line is pulling, and this is 
absolutely prevented from withdrawal. The prin- 
ciple of the whale harpoon or toggle-iron is similar, 
except that the pole is not withdrawn, and the head, 
turning upon a pivot at its end, fastens the pole 
itself securely to the fish, the harpoon-line being 
attached to some part of the pole. The swordfish 
lily-iron head, as now ordinarily used, is about four 
inches in length, and consists of two lanceloate 
blades, each about an inch and a half long, connected 

169 



TALES OF FISHES 

by a central piece much thicker than they, in which, 
upon one side, and next to the flat side of the blade, 
is the socket for the insertion of the pole-shank. 
In this same central enlargement is forged an open- 
ing to which the harpoon-line is attached. The 
dart-head is usually made of steel; sometimes of 
iron, which is generally galvanized; sometimes of 
brass. 

The entire weight of the harpoon — pole, shank, 
and head — should not exceed eighteen pounds. 

The harpoon-line is from fifty to one hundred and 
fifty fathoms long, and is ordinarily what is known 
as "fifteen-thread line." At the end is sometimes 
fastened a buoy, and an ordinary mackerel-keg is 
generally used for this purpose. 

In addition to the harpoon every swordfish fisher- 
man carries a lance. This implement is precisely sim- 
ilar to a whaleman's lance, except that it is smaller, 
consisting of a lanceolate blade perhaps one inch 
wide and two inches long, upon the end of a shank 
of five-eighths-inch iron, perhaps two or three feet 
in length, fastened in the ordinary way upon a pole 
fifteen to eighteen feet in length. 

The swordfish are always harpooned from the 
end of the bowsprit of a sailing-vessel. It is next to 
impossible to approach them in a small boat. All 
vessels regularly engaged in this fishery are supplied 
with a special apparatus called a "rest," or "pul- 
pit," for the support of the harpooner as he stands 
on the bowsprit, and this is almost essential to suc- 
cess, although it is possible for an active man to 
harpoon a fish from this station without the aid of 
the ordinary framework. Not only the professional 

170 



SWORDFISH 

swordfish fisherman, but many mackerel-schooners 
and packets are supplied in this manner. 

The swordfish never comes to the surface except 
in moderate, smooth weather. A vessel cruising in 
search of them proceeds to the fishing-ground, and 
cruises hither and thither wherever the abundance 
of small fish indicates that they ought to be found. 
Vessels which are met are hailed and asked whether 
any swordfish have been seen, and if tidings are thus 
obtained the ship's course is at once laid for the 
locality where they were last noticed. A man is 
always stationed at the masthead, where, with the 
keen eye which practice has given him, he can 
easily descry the telltale dorsal fins at a distance 
of two or three miles. When a fish has once been 
sighted, the watch "sings out," and the vessel is 
steered directly toward it. The skipper takes his 
place in the "pulpit" holding the pole in both hands 
by the small end, and directing the man at the 
wheel by voice and gesture how to steer. There is 
no difficulty in approaching the fish with a large 
vessel, although, as has already been remarked, 
they will not suffer a small boat to come near them. 
The vessel plows and swashes through the water, 
plunging its bowsprit into the waves without ex- 
citing their fears. Noises frighten them and drive 
them down. Although there would be no difficulty 
in bringing the end of a bowsprit directly over the 
fish, a skilful harpooner never waits for this. When 
the fish is from six to ten feet in front of the vessel 
it is struck. The harpoon is never thrown, the pole 
being too long. The strong arm of the harpooner 
punches the dart into the back of the fish, right at 

171 



TALES OF FISHES 

the side of the high dorsal fin, and the pole is with- 
drawn and fastened again to its place. When the 
dart has been fastened to the fish the line is allowed 
to run out as far as the fish will carry it, and is then 
passed in a small boat, which is towing at the stern. 
Two men jump into this, and pull in upon the line 
until the fish is brought in alongside; it is then 
killed with a whale-lance or a whale-spade, which is 
stuck into the gills. 

The fish having been killed, it is lifted upon the 
deck by a purchase tackle of two double blocks 
rigged in the shrouds. 

The pursuit of the swordfish is much more excit- 
ing than ordinary fishing, for it resembles the hunt- 
ing of large animals upon the land and partakes 
more of the nature of the chase. There is no slow 
and careful baiting and patient waiting, and no dis- 
appointment caused by the accidental capture of 
worthless "bait-stealers." The game is seen and fol- 
lowed, and outwitted by wary tactics, and killed by 
strength of arm and skill. The swordfish is a power- 
ful antagonist sometimes, and sends his pursuers' 
vessel into harbor leaking, and almost sinking, 
from injuries he has inflicted. I have known a vessel 
to be struck by wounded swordfish as many as 
twenty times in a season. There is even the spice 
of personal danger to savor the chase, for the men 
are occasionally wounded by the infuriated fish. 
One of Captain Ashby's crew was severely wounded 
by a swordfish which thrust his beak through the oak 
floor of a boat on which he was standing, and pene- 
trated about two inches in his naked heel. The 
strange fascination draws men to this pursuit when 

172 



SWORDFXSH 

they have once learned its charms. An old swordfish 
fisherman, who had followed the pursuit for twenty 
years, told me that when he was on the cruising- 
ground, he fished all night in his dreams, and that 
many a time he has rubbed the skin off his knuckles 
by striking them against the ceiling of his bunk 
when he raised his arms to thrust the harpoon into 
visionary monster swordfishes. 

The Spear-fish or Bill-fish 

The bill-fish or spear-fish, Tetrapturus indicus 
(with various related forms, which may or may not 
be specifically identical), occurs in the western 
Atlantic from the West Indies (latitude 10° to 20° 
N.) to southern England (latitude 40° N.); in the 
eastern Atlantic, from Gibraltar (latitude 45° N.) 
to the Cape of Good Hope (latitude 30° S.) in the 
Indian Ocean, the Malay Archipelago, New Zea- 
land (latitude 40° S.), and on the west coast of Chile 
and Peru. In a general way, the range is between 
latitude 40° N. and latitude 40° S. 

The species of Tetrapturus which we have been 
accustomed to call T. albidus, abundant about Cuba, 
is not very usual on the coast of southern New Eng- 
land. Several are taken every year by the sword- 
fish fishermen. I have not known of their capture 
along the southern Atlantic coast of the United 
States. All I have known about were taken between 
Sandy Hook and the eastern part of Georges Banks. 

The Mediterranean spear-fish, Tetrapturus balone, 
appears to be a landlocked form, never passing west 
of the Straits of Gibraltar. 

173 



TALES OF FISHES 

The spear-fish in our waters is said by our fisher- 
men to resemble the swordfish in its movements 
and manner of feeding. Professor Poey narrates 
that both the Cuban species swim at a depth of 
one hundred fathoms, and they journey in pairs, 
shaping their course toward the Gulf of Mexico, 
the females being full of eggs. Only adults are 
taken. It is not known whence they come, or where 
they breed, or how the young return. It is not even 
known whether the adult fish return by the same 
route. When the fish has swallowed the hook it 
rises to the surface, making prodigious leaps and 
plunges. At last it is dragged to the boat, secured 
with a boat-hook, and beaten to death before it is 
hauled on board. Such fishing is not without dan- 
ger, for the spear-fish sometimes rushes upon the 
boat, drowning the fisherman, or wounding him with 
its terrible weapon. The fish becomes furious at 
the appearance of sharks, which are its natural 
enemies. They engage in violent combats, and when 
the spear-fish is attached to the fisherman's line it 
often receives frightful wounds from the adversaries. 

The spear-fish strikes vessels in the same manner 
as the swordfish. I am indebted to Capt. William 
Spicer, of Noank, Connecticut, for this note: 

Mr. William Taylor, of Mystic, a man seventy-six years 
old, who was in the smack Evergreen, Capt. John Appleman, 
tells me that they started from Mystic, October 3, 1832, on a 
fishing voyage to Key West, in company with the smack Morning 
Star, Captain Rowland. On the 12th were off Cape Hatteras, 
the winds blowing heavily from the northeast, and the smack 
under double-reefed sails. At ten o'clock in the evening they 
struck a woho, which shocked the vessel all over. The smack 
was leaking badly, and they made a signal to the Morning 

174 



SWORDFISH 

Star to keep close to them. The next morning they found the 
leak, and both smacks kept off Charleston. On arrival they 
took out the ballast, hove her out, and found that the sword 
had gone through the planking, timber, and ceiling. The plank 
was two inches thick, the timber five inches, and the ceiling one- 
and-a-half-inch white oak. The sword projected two inches 
through the ceiling, on the inside of the "after run." It struck 
by a butt on the outside, which caused the leak. They took 
out and replaced a piece of the plank, and proceeded on their 
voyage. 

The Sailfish 

The sailfish, Histiophorus gladius (with H. ameri- 
canus and H. orientalis, questionable species, and H. 
pulchellus and H. immaculatus, young), occurs in 
the Red Sea, Indian Ocean, Malay Archipel- 
ago, and south at least as far as the Cape of 
Good Hope (latitude 35° S.) ; in the Atlantic on the 
coast of Brazil (latitude 30° S.) to the equator, and 
north to southern New England (latitude 42° N.); 
in the Pacific to southwestern Japan (latitude 30° 
to 10° N.). In a general way the range may be 
said to be in tropical and temperate seas, between 
latitude 30° S. and 40° N., and in the western parts 
of those seas. 

The first allusion to this genus occurs in Piso's 
Historia Naturalis Brasilice printed in Amsterdam in 
1648. In this book may be found an identical, though 
rough, figure of the American species, accompanied 
by a few lines of description, which, though good, 
when the fact that they were written in the seven- 
teenth century is brought to mind, are of no value 
for critical comparison. 

The name given to the Brazilian sailfish by Marc- 

175 



TALES OF FISHES 

grave, the talented young German who described 
the fish in the book referred to, and who afterward 
sacrificed his life in exploring the unknown fields of 
American zoology, is interesting, since it gives a 
clue to the derivation of the name "boohoo," by 
which this fish, and probably spear-fish, are known 
to English-speaking sailors in the tropical Atlantic. 

Sailfish were observed in the East Indies by 
Renard and Valentijn, explorers of that region from 
1680 to 1720, and by other Eastern voyagers. No 
species of the genus was, however, systematically 
described until 1786, when a stuffed specimen from 
the Indian Ocean, eight feet long, was taken to 
London, where it still remains in the collections of 
the British Museum. From this specimen M. 
Broussonet prepared a description, giving it the 
name Scomber gladius, rightly regarding it as a species 
allied to the mackerel. 

From the time of Marcgrave until 1872 it does not 
appear that any zoologist had any opportunity to 
study a sailfish from America or even the Atlantic; 
yet in Gunther's Catalogue, the name H. americanus 
is discarded and the species of America is assumed 
to be identical with that of the Indian Ocean. 

The materials in the National Museum consist 
of a skeleton and a painted plaster cast of the 
specimen taken near Newport, Rhode Island, in 
August, 1872, and given to Professor Baird by Mr. 
Samuel Powell, of Newport. No others were ob- 
served in our waters until March, 1878, when, ac- 
cording to Mr. Neyle Habersham, of Savannah, 
Georgia, two were taken by a vessel between Savan- 
nah and Indian River, Florida, and were brought to 

176 



SWORDFISH 

Savannah, where they attracted much attention in 
the market. In 1873, according to Mr. E. G. Black- 
ford, a specimen in a very mutilated condition was 
brought from Key West to New York City. 

No observations have been made in this country, 
and recourse must be had to the statements of ob- 
servers in the other hemisphere. 

In the Life of Sir Stamford Raffles is printed a 
letter from Singapore, under date of November 30, 
1822, with the following statement: 

The only amusing discovery we have recently made is that 
of a sailing-fish, called by the natives "ikan layer," of about ten 
or twelve feet long, which hoists a mainsail, and often sails in 
the manner of a native boat, and with considerable swiftness. 
I have sent a set of the sails home, as they are beautifully cut 
and form a model for a fast-sailing boat. When a school of these 
are under sail together they are frequently mistaken for a school 
of native boats. 

The fish referred to is in all likelihood Histiophorus 
gladius, a species very closely related to, if not iden- 
tical with, our own. 

The Cutlass-fish 

The cutlass-fish, Trichiurus Upturns, unfortunately 
known in eastern Florida and at Pensacola as the 
swordfish; at New Orleans, in the St. John's River, 
and at Brunswick, Georgia, it is known as the 
"silver eel"; on the coast of Texas as "saber-fish," 
while in the Indian River region it is called the "skip- 
jack." No one of these names is particularly ap- 
plicable, and, the latter being preoccupied, it would 
12 177 



TALES OF FISHES 

seem advantageous to use in this country the name 
"cutlass-fish," which is current for the same species 
in the British West Indies. 

Its appearance is very remarkable on account of 
its long, compressed form and its glistening, silvery 
color. The name "scabbard-fish," which has been 
given to an allied species in Europe, would be very 
proper also for this species, for in general shape and 
appearance it looks very like the metallic scabbard 
of the sword. It attains the length of four or five 
feet, though ordinarily not exceeding twenty-five or 
thirty inches. This species is found in the tropical 
Atlantic, on the coast of Brazil, in the Gulf of Cali- 
fornia, the West Indies, the Gulf of Mexico, and 
north to Woods Holl, Massachusetts, where, during 
the past ten years, specimens have been occasionally 
taken. In 1845 one was found at Wellfleet, Massa- 
chusetts; and in the Essex Institute is a specimen 
which is said to have been found on the shores of 
the Norway Frith many years ago, and during the 
past decade it has become somewhat abundant in 
southern England. It does not, however, enter the 
Mediterranean. Some writers believed the allied 
species, Trichiurus haumela, found in the Indian 
Ocean and Archipelago and in various parts of the 
Pacific, to be specifically the same. 

The cutlass-fish is abundant in the St. John's 
River, Florida, in the Indian River region, and in 
the Gulf of Mexico. Several instances were related 
to me in which these fish had thrown themselves 
from the water into rowboats, a feat which might 
be very easily performed by a lithe, active species 
like the Trichiurus. A small one fell into a boat 

178 



SWORDFISH 

crossing the mouth of the Arlington River, where 
the water is nearly fresh. 

Many individuals of the same species are taken 
every year at the mouth of the St. John's River at 
Mayport. Stearn states that they are caught in 
the deep waters of the bays about Pensacola, swim- 
ming nearly at the surface, but chiefly with hooks 
and lines from the wharves. He has known them 
to strike at the oars of the boat and at the end of 
the ropes that trailed in the water. At Pensacola 
they reach a length of twenty to thirty inches, and 
are considered good food fish. Richard Hill states 
that in Jamaica this species is much esteemed, and 
is fished for assiduously in a "hole," as it is called 
— that is, a deep portion of the waters off Fort 
Augusta. This is the best fishing-place for the 
cutlass-fish, Trichiurus. The fishing takes place be- 
fore day; all lines are pulled in as fast as they are 
thrown out, with the certainty that the cutlass has 
been hooked. As many as ninety boats have been 
counted on this fishing-ground at daybreak during 
the season. 



X 

THE GLADIATOR OF THE SEA 

HPHREE summers in Catalina waters I had tried 
-■■ persistently to capture my first broadbill sword- 
fish; and so great were the chances against me that 
I tried really without hope. It was fisherman's 
pride, I imagined, rather than hope that drove me. 
At least I had a remarkably keen appreciation of 
the defeats in store for any man who aspired to 
experience with that marvel of the sea — Xiphius 
gladius, the broadbill swordsman. 

On the first morning of my fourth summer, 1917, 
I was up at five. Fine, cool, fresh, soft dawn with 
a pale pink sunrise. Sea rippling with an easterly 
breeze. As the sun rose it grew bright and warm. 
We did not get started out on the water until eight 
o'clock. The east wind had whipped up a little 
chop that promised bad. But the wind gradually 
died down and the day became hot. Great thunder- 
heads rose over the mainland, proclaiming heat on 
the desert. We saw scattered sheerwater ducks and 
a school of porpoises; also a number of splashes 
that I was sure were made by swordfish. 

The first broadbill I sighted had a skinned tail, 
and evidently had been in a battle of some kind. 
We circled him three times with flying-fish bait and 

180 




XIPHIAS GLADIUS, THE BROADSWORDED GLADIATOR OF THE SEA 



THE GLADIATOR OF THE SEA 

once with barracuda, and as he paid no attention 
to them we left him. This fish leaped half out on 
two occasions, once showing his beautiful proportions, 
his glistening silver white, and his dangerous-looking 
rapier. 

The second one leaped twice before we neared 
him. And as we made a poor attempt at circling 
him, he saw the boat and would have none of our 
offers. 

The third one was skimming along just under the 
surface, difficult to see. After one try at him we 
lost him. 

They were not up on the surface that day, as they 
are when the best results are obtained. The east 
wind may have had something to do with that. 
These fish would average about three hundred pounds 
each. Captain Dan says the small ones are more 
wary, or not so hungry, for they do not strike readily. 

I got sunburnt and a dizzy headache and almost 
seasick. Yet the day was pleasant. The first few 
days are always hard, until I get broken in. 

Next morning the water and conditions were ideal. 
The first two swordfish we saw did not stay on the 
surface long enough to be worked. The third one 
stayed up, but turned away from the bait every 
time we got it near hirn. So we left him. 

About noon I sighted a big splash a mile off shore- 
ward, and we headed that way. Soon I sighted fins. 
The first time round we got the bait right and I felt 
the old thrill. He went down. I waited; but in vain. 

He leaped half out, and some one snapped a 
picture. It looked like a fortunate opportunity 
grasped. We tried him again, with flying-fish and 

181 



TALES OF FISHES 

barracuda. But he would not take either. Yet h e 
loafed around on the surface, showing his colors, 
quite near the boat. He leaped clear out once, but 
I saw only the splash. Then he came out sideways, 
a skittering sort of plunge, lazy and heavy. He was 
about a three-hundred pounder, white and blue and 
green, a rare specimen of fish. We tried him again 
and drew a bait right in front of him. No use! 
Then we charged him — ran him down. Even then 
he was not frightened, and came up astern. At last, 
discouraged at his indifference, we left him. 

This day was ideal up to noon. Then the sun 
got very hot. My wrists were burnt, and neck and 
face. My eyes got tired searching the sea for fins. 
It was a great game, this swordfishing, and beat any 
other I ever tried, for patience and endurance. The 
last fish showed his cunning. They were all differ- 
ent, and a study of each would be fascinating and 
instructive. 

Next morning was fine. There were several hours 
when the sea was smooth and we could have sighted 
a swordfish a long distance. We went eastward of 
the ship course almost over to Newport. At noon a 
westerly wind sprang up and the water grew rough. 
It took some hours to be out of it to the leeward of 
the island. 

I saw a whale bend his back and sound and lift 
his flukes high in the air — one of the wonder sights 
of the ocean. 

It was foggy all morning, and rather too cool. 
No fish of any kind showed on the surface. One of 
those inexplicably blank days that are inevitable 
in sea angling. 

182 



THE GLADIATOR OF THE SEA 

When we got to the dock we made a discovery. 
There was a kink in my leader about one inch above 
the hook. Nothing but the sword of old Xiphius 
gladius could have made that kink ! Then I remem- 
bered a strange, quick, hard jerk that had taken 
my bait, and which I thought had been done by a 
shark. It was a swordfish striking the bait off! 

Next day we left the dock at six fifteen, Dan and 
I alone. The day was lowering and windy — looked 
bad. We got out ahead of every one. Trolled out 
five miles, then up to the west end. We got among 
the Japs fishing for albacore. 

About eleven I sighted a B. B. We dragged a 
bait near him and he went down with a flirt of his 
tail. My heart stood still. Dan and I both made 
sure it was a strike. But, no! He came up far 
astern, and then went down for good. 

The sea got rough. The wind was chilling to the 
bone. Sheerwater ducks were everywhere, in flocks 
and singly. Saw one yellow patch of small bait fish 
about an inch long. This patch was forty yards 
across. No fish appeared to be working on it. 

Dan sighted a big swordfish. We made for him. 
Dan put on an albacore. But it came off before I 
could let out the line. Then we tried a barracuda. 
I got a long line out and the hook pulled loose. 
This was unfortunate and aggravating. We had 
one barracuda left. Dan hooked it on hard. 

"That '11 never come off!" he exclaimed. We 
circled old Xiphius, and when about fifty yards dis- 
tant he lifted himself clear out — a most terrifying 
and magnificent fish. He would have weighed four 
hundred. His colors shone — blazed — purple blue, 

183 



TALES OF FISHES 

pale green, iridescent copper, and flaming silver. 
Then he made a long, low lunge away from us. I 
bade him good-by, but let the barracuda drift back. 
We waited a long time while the line slowly bagged, 
drifting toward us. Suddenly I felt a quick, strong 
pull. It electrified me. I yelled to Dan. He said, 
excitedly, "Feed it to him!" but the line ceased 
to play out. I waited, slowly losing hope, with 
my pulses going back to normal. After we drifted 
for five minutes I wound in the line. The bar- 
racuda was gone and the leader had been rolled 
up. This astounded us. That swordfish had taken 
my bait. I felt his first pull. Then he had come 
toward the boat, crushing the bait off the hook, 
without making even a twitch on the slack line. It 
was heartbreaking. But we could not have done 
any different. Dan decided the fish had come after 
the teasers. This experience taught us exceeding 
respect for the broadbill. 

Again we were off early in the morning. Wind 
outside and growing rough. Sun bright until off 
Isthmus, when we ran into fog. The Jap albacore- 
boats were farther west. Albacore not biting well. 
Sea grew rough. About eleven thirty the fog cleared 
and the sea became beautifully blue and white- 
crested. 

I was up on the deck when a yell from below made 
me jump. I ran back. Some one was holding my 
rod, and on the instant that a huge swordfish got 
the bait had not the presence of mind to throw off 
the drag and let out line. We hurried to put on 
another flying-fish and I let out the line. 

Soon Dan yelled, "There he is — behind your bait!" 

184 



THE GLADIATOR OF THE SEA 

I saw him — huge, brown, wide, weaving after my 
bait. Then he hit it with his sword. I imagined 
I could feel him cut it. Winding in, I found the bait 
cut off neatly back of the head. While Dan hur- 
ried with another bait I watched for the swordfish, 
and saw him back in the wake, rather deep. He 
was following us. It was an intensely exciting mo- 
ment. I let the bait drift back. Almost at once I 
felt that peculiar rap at my bait, then another. 
Somehow I knew he had cut off another flying-fish. 
I reeled in. He had severed this bait in the middle. 
Frantically we baited again. I let out a long line, 
and we drifted. Hope was almost gone when there 
came a swift tug on my line, and then the reel 
whirred. I thumbed the pad lightly. Dan yelled 
for me to let him have it. I was all tingling with 
wonderful thrills. What a magnificent strike! He 
took line so fast it amazed me. 

All at once, just as Dan yelled to hook him, the 
reel ceased to turn, the line slacked. I began to jerk 
hard and wind in, all breathless with excitement and 
frenzy of hope. Not for half a dozen pumps and 
windings did I feel him. Then heavy and strong 
came the weight. I jerked and reeled. But I did 
not get a powerful strike on that fish. Suddenly the 
line slacked and my heart contracted. He had 
shaken the hook. I reeled in. Bait gone! He had 
doubled on me and run as swiftly toward the boat 
as he had at first run from it. 

The hook had not caught well. Probably he had 
just held the bait between his jaws. The disappoint- 
ment was exceedingly bitter and poignant. My re- 
spect for Xifhius increased in proportion to my sense 

185 



TALES OF FISHES 

of lost opportunity. This great fish thinks! That 
was my conviction. 

We sighted another that refused to take a bait 
and soon went down. 

We had learned the last few days that broadbills 
will strike when not on the surface, just as Marlin 
swordfish do. 

On our next day out we had smooth sea all morn- 
ing, with great, slow-running swells, long and high, 
with deep hollows between. Vast, heaving bosom of 
the deep! It was majestic. Along the horizon ran 
dark, low, lumpy waves, moving fast. A thick fog, 
like a pall, hung over the sea all morning. 

About eleven o'clock I sighted fins. We made 
a circle round him, and drew the bait almost right 
across his bill. He went down. Again that familiar 
waiting, poignant suspense ! . . . He refused to strike. 

Next one was a big fellow with pale fins. We 
made a perfect circle, and he went down as if to 
take the bait! . . . But he came up. We tried again. 
Same result. Then we put on an albacore and 
drew that, tail first, in front of him. Slowly he 
swam toward it, went down, and suddenly turned 
and shot away, leaving a big wake. He was badly 
scared by that albacore. 

Next one we worked three times before he went 
down, and the last one gave us opportunity for only 
one circle before he sank. 

They are shy, keen, and wise. 

The morning following, as we headed out over a 
darkly rippling sea, some four miles off Long Point, 
where we had the thrilling strikes from the big sword- 
fish, and which place we had fondly imagined was 

186 



THE GLADIATOR OF THE SEA 

our happy hunting-ground — because it was near 
shore and off the usual fishing course out in the 
channel — we ran into Boschen fighting a fish. 

This is a spectacle not given to many fishermen, 
and I saw my opportunity. 

With my glass I watched Boschen fight the sword- 
fish, and I concluded from the way he pulled that 
he was fast to the bottom of the ocean. We went 
on our way then, and that night when I got in I 
saw his wonderful swordfish, the world's record we 
all knew he would get some day. Four hundred and 
sixty-three pounds! And he had the luck to kill 
this great fish in short time. My friend Doctor 
Riggin, a scientist, dissected this fish, and found 
that Boschen's hook had torn into the heart. This 
strange feature explained the easy capture, and, 
though it might detract somewhat from Boschen's 
pride in the achievement, it certainly did not de- 
tract from the record. 

That night, after coming in from the day's hunt 
for swordfish, Dan and I decided to get good bait. 
At five thirty we started for seal rocks. The sun 
was setting, and the red fog over the west end of 
the island was weird and beautiful. Long, slow 
swells were running, and they boomed inshore on 
the rocks. Seals were barking — a hoarse, raucous 
croak. I saw a lonely heron silhouetted against the 
red glow of the western horizon. 

We fished — trolling slowly a few hundred yards 
offshore — and soon were fighting barracuda, which 
we needed so badly for swordfish bait. 

They strike easily, and put up a jerky kind of 
battle. They are a long, slim fish, yellow and white 

187 



TALES OF FISHES 

in the water, a glistening pale bronze and silver 
when landed. I hooked a harder-fighting fish, which, 
when brought in, proved to be a white sea-bass, a 
very beautiful species with faint purplish color and 
mottled opal tints above the deep silver. 

Next morning we left the bay at six thirty. It was 
the calmest day we had had in days. The sea was 
like a beveled mirror, oily, soft, and ethereal, with 
low swells barely moving. An hour and a half out 
we were alone on the sea, out of sight of land, with 
the sun faintly showing, and all around us, inclosing 
and mystical, a thin haze of fog. 

Alone, alone, all alone on a wide, wide sea! This 
was wonderful, far beyond any pursuit of swordfish. 

We sighted birds, gulls, and ducks floating like 
bits of colored cork, and pieces of kelp, and at length 
a broadbill. We circled him three times with barra- 
cuda, and again with a flying-fish. Apparently he 
had no interest in edibles. He scorned our lures. 
But we stayed with him until he sank for good. 

Then we rode the sea for hours, searching for fins. 

At ten forty we sighted another. Twice we drew 
a fresh fine barracuda in front of him, which he re- 
fused. It was so disappointing, in fact, really sick- 
ening. 

Dan was disgusted. He said, "We can't get them 
to bite!" 

And I said, "Let's try again!" 

So we circled him once more. The sea was beau- 
tifully smooth, with the slow swells gently heaving. 
The swordfish rode them lazily and indifferently. 
His dorsal stood up straight and stiff, and the big 
sickle-shaped tail-fin wove to and fro behind. I 

188 



THE GLADIATOR OF THE SEA 

gazed at them longingly, in despair, as unattainable. 
I knew of nothing in the fishing game as tantalizing 
and despairing as this sight. 

We got rather near him this time, as he turned, 
facing us, and slowly swam in the direction of my 
bait. I could see the barracuda shining astern. Dan 
stopped the boat. I slowly let out line. The sword- 
fish drifted back, and then sank. 

I waited, intensely, but really without hope. 
And I watched my bait until it sank out of sight. 
Then followed what seemed a long wait. Probably 
it was really only a few moments. I had a sort of 
hopeless feeling. But I respected the fish all the 
more. 

Then suddenly I felt a quiver of my line, as if an 
electric current had animated it. I was shocked 
keen and thrilling. My line whipped up and ran out. 

"He's got it!" I called, tensely. That was a 
strong, stirring instant as with fascinated eyes I 
watched the line pass swiftly and steadily off the 
reel. I let him run a long way. 

Then I sat down, jammed the rod in the socket, 
put on the drag, and began to strike. The second 
powerful sweep of the rod brought the line tight 
and I felt that heavy live weight. I struck at least a 
dozen times with all my might while the line was 
going off the reel. The swordfish was moving pon- 
derously. Presently he came up with a great splash, 
showing his huge fins, and then the dark, slender, 
sweeping sword. He waved that sword, striking 
fiercely at the leader. Then he went down. It was 
only at this moment I realized I had again hooked 
a broadbill. Time, ten forty-five, 

189 



TALES OF FISHES 

The fight was on. 

For a while he circled the boat and it was impos- 
sible to move him a foot. He was about two hun- 
dred and fifty yards from us. Every once in a while 
he would come up. His sword would appear first, 
a most extraordinary sight as it pierced the water. 
We could hear the swish. Once he leaped half out. 
We missed this picture. I kept a steady, hard strain 
on him, pumping now and then, getting a little line 
in, which he always got back. The first hour passed 
swiftly with this surface fight alternating with his 
slow heavy work down. However, he did not sound. 

About eleven forty-five he leaped clear out, and 
we snapped two pictures of him. It was a fierce 
effort to free the hook, a leap not beautiful and 
graceful, like that of the Marlin, but magnificent 
and dogged. 

After this leap he changed his tactics. Repeated- 
ly I was pulled forward and lifted from my seat by 
sudden violent jerks. They grew more frequent 
and harder. He came up and we saw how he did 
that. He was facing the boat and batting the 
leader with his sword. This was the most remark- 
able action I ever observed in a fighting fish. That 
sword was a weapon. I could hear it hit the leader. 
But he did most of this work under the surface. 
Every time he hit the leader it seemed likely to 
crack my neck. The rod bent, then the line slack- 
ened so I could feel no weight, the rod flew straight. 
I had an instant of palpitating dread, feeling he had 
freed himself — then harder came the irresistible, 
heavy drag again. This batting of the leader and 
consequent slacking of the line worried Dan, as it 

190 



THE GLADIATOR OF THE SEA 

did me. Neither of us expected to hold the fish. 
As a performance it was wonderful. But to endure 
it was terrible. And he batted that leader at least 
three hundred times! 

In fact, every moment or two he banged the leader 
several times for over an hour. It almost wore me 
out. If he had not changed those tactics again those 
jerks would have put a kink in my neck and back. 
But fortunately he came up on the surface to thresh 
about some more. Again he leaped clear, affording 
us another chance for a picture. Following that he 
took his first long run. It was about one hundred 
yards and as fast as a Marlin. Then he sounded. 
He stayed down for half an hour. When he came 
up somewhat he seemed to be less resistant, and we 
dragged him at slow speed for several miles. At the 
end of three hours I asked Dan for the harness, 
which he strapped to my shoulders. This afforded 
me relief for my arms and aching hands, but the 
straps cut into my back, and that hurt. The har- 
ness enabled me to lift and pull by a movement of 
shoulders. I worked steadily on him for an hour, 
five different times getting the two-hundred-foot 
mark on the line over my reel. When I tired Dan 
would throw in the clutch and drag him some more. 
Once he followed us without strain for a while; 
again we dragged him two or three miles. And most 
remarkable of all, there was a period of a few mo- 
ments when he towed us. A wonderful test for a 
twenty-four-strand line! We made certain of this 
by throwing papers overboard and making allowance 
for the drift. At that time there was no wind. I had 
three and one-half hours of perfectly smooth water. 

191 



TALES OF FISHES 

It was great to be out there on a lonely sea with 
that splendid fish. I was tiring, but did not fail 
to see the shimmering beauty of the sea, the playing 
of albacore near at hand, the flight of frightened 
flying-fish, the swooping down of gulls, the dim 
shapes of boats far off, and away above the cloud- 
bank of fog the mountains of California. 

About two o'clock our indefatigable quarry be- 
gan to belabor the leader again. He appeared even 
more vicious and stronger. That jerk, with its rag- 
ged, rough loosening of the line, making me feel the 
hook was tearing out, was the most trying action 
any fish ever worked on me. The physical effort 
necessary to hold him was enough, without that on- 
slaught on my leader. Again there came a roar of 
water, a splash, and his huge dark-blue and copper- 
colored body surged on the surface. He wagged his 
head and the long black sword made a half-circle. 
The line was taut from boat to fish in spite of all I 
could do in lowering my rod. I had to hold it up 
far enough to get the spring. There was absolutely 
no way to keep him from getting slack. The danger- 
ous time in fighting heavy, powerful fish is when they 
head toward the angler. Then the hook will pull out 
more easily than at any other time. He gave me a 
second long siege of these tactics until I was afraid 
I would give out. When he got through and sounded 
I had to have the back-rest replaced in the seat to 
rest my aching back. 

Three o'clock came and passed. We dragged him 
awhile, and found him slower, steadier, easier to 
pull. That constant long strain must have been 
telling upon him. It was also telling upon me. As 

192 



THE GLADIATOR OF THE SEA 

I tried to save some strength for the finish, I had 
not once tried my utmost at lifting him or pulling 
him near the boat. Along about four o'clock he 
swung round to the west in the sun glare and there 
he hung, broadside, about a hundred yards out, for 
an hour. We had to go along with him. 

The sea began to ripple with a breeze, and at 
length whitecaps appeared. In half an hour it was 
rough, not bad, but still making my work exceed- 
ingly hard. I had to lift the rod up to keep the 
seat from turning and to hold my footing on the 
slippery floor. The water dripping from the reel 
had wet me and all around me. 

At five o'clock I could not stand the harness any 
longer, so had Dan remove it. That was a relief. 
I began to pump my fish as in the earlier hours of 
the fight. Eventually I got him out of that broad- 
side position away from us and to the boat. He 
took some line, which I got back. I now began to 
have confidence in being able to hold him. He had 
ceased batting the leader. For a while he stayed 
astern, but gradually worked closer. This worried 
Dan. He was getting under the boat. Dan started 
faster ahead and still the swordfish kept just under 
us, perhaps fifty feet down. It was not long until 
Dan was running at full speed. But we could not 
lose the old gladiator! Then I bade Dan slow down, 
which he was reluctant to do. He feared the sword- 
fish would ram us, and I had some qualms myself. 
At five thirty he dropped astern again and we 
breathed freer. At this time I decided to see if I 
could pull him close. I began to pump and reel, and 
inch by inch, almost, I gained line. I could not tell 

13 193 



TALES OF FISHES 

just how far away he was, because the marks had 
worn off my line. It was amazing and thrilling, 
therefore, to suddenly see the end of the double line 
appear. Dan yelled. So did I. Like a Trojan I 
worked till I got that double line over my reel. 
Then we all saw the fish. He was on his side, swim- 
ming with us — a huge, bird-shaped creature with a 
frightful bill. Dan called me to get the leader out 
of water and then hold. This took about all I 
had left of strength. The fish wavered from side to 
side, and Dan feared he would go under the boat. 
He ordered me to hold tight, and he put on more 
speed. This grew to be more than I could stand. 
It was desperately hard to keep the line from slip- 
ping. And I knew a little more of that would lose 
my fish. So I called Dan to take the leader. With 
his huge gaff in right hand, Dan reached for the leader 
with his left, grasped it, surged the fish up and made 
a lunge. There came a roar and a beating against 
the boat. Dan yelled for another gaff. It was 
handed to him and he plunged that into the fish. 

Then I let down my rod and dove for the short 
rope to lasso the sweeping tail. Fortunately he kept 
quiet a moment in which I got the loop fast. It was 
then Xiphius gladius really woke up. He began a 
tremendous beating with his tail. Both gaff ropes 
began to loosen, and the rope on his tail flew out of 
my hands. Dan got it in time. But it was slipping. 
He yelled for me to make a hitch somewhere. I 
was pulled flat in the cockpit, but scrambled up, out 
on the stern, and held on to that rope grimly while 
I tried to fasten it. Just almost impossible! The 
water was deluging us. The swordfish banged the 

194 



THE GLADIATOR OF THE SEA 

boat with sodden, heavy blows. But I got the rope 
fast. Then I went to Dan's assistance. The two 
of us pulled that tremendous tail up out of the water 
and made fast the rope. Then we knew we had him. 
But he surged and strained and lashed for a long 
while. And side blows of his sword scarred the 
boat. At last he sagged down quiet, and we headed 
for Avalon. Once more in smooth water, we loaded 
him astern. I found the hook just in the corner of 
his mouth, which fact accounted for the long battle. 

Doctor Riggin, the University of Pennsylvania 
anatomist, and classmate of mine, dissected this fish 
for me. Two of the most remarkable features about 
Xiphius gladius were his heart and eye. 

The heart was situated deep in just back of the 
gills. It was a big organ, exceedingly heavy, and 
the most muscular tissue I ever saw. In fact, so 
powerfully muscular was it that when cut the tissue 
contracted and could not be placed together again. 
The valves were likewise remarkably well developed 
and strong. This wonderful heart accounted for 
the wonderful vitality of the swordfish. The eyes 
of a swordfish likewise proved the wonder of nature. 
They were huge and prominent, a deep sea-blue 
set in pale crystal rims and black circles. A sword- 
fish could revolve his eyes and turn them in their 
sockets so that they were absolutely protected in 
battle with his mates and rivals. The eye had a 
covering of bone, cup-shaped, and it was this bone 
that afforded protection. It was evident that when 
the eye was completely turned in the swordfish could 
not see at all. Probably this was for close battle. 
The muscles were very heavy and strong, one at- 

195 



TALES OF FISHES 

tached at the rim of the eye and the other farther 
back. The optic nerve was as large as the median 
nerve of a man's arm — that is to say, half the size 
of a lead-pencil. There were three coverings over 
the fluid that held the pupil. And these were as 
thick and tough as isinglass. Most remarkable of 
all was the ciliary muscle which held the capacity 
of contracting the lens for distant vision. A sword- 
fish could see as far as the rays of light penetrated 
in whatever depth he swam. I have always sus- 
pected he had extraordinary eyesight, and this dis- 
section of the eye proved it. No fear a swordfish 
will not see a bait! He can see the boat and the 
bait a long distance. 

Doctor Riggin found no sperm in any of the male 
fish he dissected, which was proof that swordfish 
spawn before coming to Catalina waters. They are 
a warm-water fish, and probably head off the Japan 
current into some warm, intersecting branch that 
leads to spawning-banks. 

This was happy knowledge for me, because it 
will be good to know that when old Xiphius gladius 
is driven from Catalina waters he will be roaming 
some other place of the Seven Seas, his great sickle 
fins shining dark against the blue. 




HAULED ABOARD WITH BLOCK AND TACKLE 



XI 

$EVEN MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY 

SAN CLEMENTE lies forty miles south of Santa 
Catalina, out in the Pacific, open to wind and 
fog, scorched by sun, and beaten on every shore by 
contending tides. Seen from afar, the island seems 
a bleak, long, narrow strip of drab rock rising from 
a low west end to the dignity of a mountain near 
the east end. Seen close at hand, it is still barren, 
bleak, and drab; but it shows long golden slopes of 
wild oats; looming, gray, lichen-colored crags, 
where the eagles perch; and rugged deep canons, 
cactus-covered on the south side and on the other 
indented by caves and caverns, and green with 
clumps of wild-lilac and wild-cherry and arbor vitse; 
and bare round domes where the wild goats stand 
silhouetted against the blue sky. 

This island is volcanic in origin and structure, 
and its great caves have been made by blow-holes 
in hot lava. Erosion has weathered slope and wall 
and crag. For the most part these slopes and walls 
are exceedingly hard to climb. The goat trails are 
narrow and steep, the rocks sharp and ragged, the 
cactus thick and treacherous. Many years ago 
Mexicans placed goats on the island for the need 
of shipwrecked sailors, and these goats have trav- 

197 



TALES OF FISHES 

ersed the wild-oat slopes until they are like a net- 
work of trails. Every little space of grass has its 
crisscross of goat trails. 

I rested high up on a slope, in the lee of a rugged 
rock, all rust-stained and gray-lichened, with a deep 
cactus-covered canon to my left, the long, yellow, 
windy slope of wild oats to my right, and beneath 
me the Pacific, majestic and grand, where the great 
white rollers moved in graceful heaves along the 
blue. The shore-line, curved by rounded gravelly 
beach and jutted by rocky point, showed creeping 
white lines of foam, and then green water spotted 
by beds of golden kelp, reaching out into the deeps. 
Far across the lonely space rose creamy clouds, 
thunderheads looming over the desert on the main- 
land. 

A big black raven soared by with dismal croak. 
The wind rustled the oats. There was no other sound 
but the sound of the sea — deep, low-toned, booming 
like thunder, long crash and continuous roar. 

How wonderful to watch eagles in their native 
haunts! I saw a bald eagle sail by, and then two 
golden eagles winging heavy flight after him. There 
seemed to be contention or rivalry, for when the 
white-headed bird alighted the others swooped down 
upon him. They circled and flew in and out of the 
canon, and one let out a shrill, piercing scream. 
They disappeared and I watched a lonely gull riding 
the swells. He at least was at home on the restless 
waters. Life is beautiful, particularly elemental 
life. Then far above I saw the white-tipped eagle 
and I thrilled to see the difference now in his flight. 
He was monarch of the air, king of the wind, lonely 

198 



SEVEN MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY 

and grand in the blue. He soared, he floated, he 
sailed, and then, away across the skies he flew, 
swift as an arrow, to slow and circle again, and 
swoop up high and higher, wide-winged and free, 
ringed in the azure blue, and then like a thunder- 
bolt he fell, to vanish beyond the crags. 

Again I saw right before me a small brown hawk, 
poised motionless, resting on the wind, with quiver- 
ing wings, and he hung there, looking down for his 
prey — some luckless lizard or rat. He seemed sus- 
pended on wires. There, down like a brown flash 
he was gone, and surely that swoop meant a desert 
tragedy. 

I heard the bleat of a lamb or kid, and it pierced 
the melancholy roar of the sea. 

If there is a rapture on the lonely shore, there 
was indeed rapture here high above it, blown upon 
by the sweet, soft winds. I heard the bleat close at 
hand. Turning, I saw a she-goat with little kid 
scarce a foot high. She crossed a patch of cactus. 
The kid essayed to follow here, but found the way 
too thorny. He bleated — a tiny, pin-pointed bleat 
— and his mother turned to answer encouragingly. 
He leaped over a cactus, attempted another, and, 
failing, fell on the sharp prickers. He bleated in 
distress and scrambled out of that hard and pain- 
ful place. The mother came around, and presently, 
reunited, they went on, to disappear. 

The island seemed consecrated to sun and sea. 
It lay out of the latitude of ships. Only a few 
Mexican sheep-herders lived there, up at the east 
end where less-rugged land allowed pasture for their 
flocks. A little rain falls during the winter months, 

199 



TALES OF FISHES 

and soon disappears from the porous canon-beds. 
Water-holes were rare and springs rarer. The sum- 
mit was flat, except for some rounded domes of 
mountains, and there the deadly cholla cactus grew 
— not in profusion, but enough to prove the dread 
of the Mexicans for this species of desert plant. It 
was a small bush, with cones like a pine cone in 
shape, growing in clusters, and over stems and cones 
were fine steel-pointed needles with invisible hooks 
at the ends. 

A barren, lonely prospect, that flat plateau above, 
an empire of the sun, where heat veils rose and 
mirages haunted the eye. But at sunset fog rolled 
up from the outer channel, and if the sun blasted 
the life on the island, the fog saved it. So there was 
war between sun and fog, the one that was the lord 
of day, and the other the dew-laden savior of night. 

South, on the windward side, opened a wide bay, 
Smugglers Cove by name, and it was infinitely more 
beautiful than its name. A great curve indented 
the league-long slope of island, at each end of which 
low, ragged lines of black rock jutted out into the 
sea. Around this immense bare amphitheater, 
which had no growth save scant cactus and patches 
of grass, could be seen long lines of shelves where 
the sea-levels had been in successive ages of the 
past. 

Near the middle of the curve, on a bleached bank, 
stood a lonely little hut, facing the sea. Old and 
weather-beaten, out of place there, it held and fas- 
cinated the gaze. Below it a white shore-line curved 
away where the waves rolled in, sadly grand, to 
break and spread on the beach. 

<2Q0 



SEVEN MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY 

At the east end, where the jagged black rocks met 
the sea, I loved to watch a great swell rise out of the 
level blue, heave and come, slow-lifting as if from 
some infinite power, to grow and climb aloft till the 
blue turned green and sunlight showed through, 
and the long, smooth crest, where the seals rode, 
took on a sharp edge to send wisps of spray in the 
wind, and, rising sheer, the whole swell, solemn and 
ponderous and majestic, lifted its volume one beau- 
tiful instant, then curled its shining crest and rolled 
in and down with a thundering, booming roar, all 
the curves and contours gone in a green- white seeth- 
ing mass that climbed the reefs and dashed itself 
to ruin. 

An extraordinary achievement and record fell to 
my brother R. C. It was too much good luck ever 
to come my way. Fame is a fickle goddess. R. C. 
had no ambition to make a great catch of swordfish. 
He angles for these big game of the sea more to fur- 
nish company for me than for any other reason. 
He likes best the golden, rocky streams where the 
bronze-back black-bass hide, or the swift, amber- 
colored brooks full of rainbow trout. 

I must add that in my opinion, and Captain 
Danielson's also, R. C. is a superior angler, and all 
unconscious of it. He has not my intimate knowl- 
edge of big fish, but he did not seem to need that. 
He is powerful in the shoulders and arms, his hands 
are strong and hard from baseball and rowing, and 
he is practically tireless. He never rested while 
fighting a fish. We never saw him lean the rod 

on the gunwale. All of which accounts for his 

201 



TALES OF FISHES 

quick conquering of a Marlin swordfish. We have 
yet to see him work upon a broadbill or a big tuna; 
and. that is something Captain Dan and I are an- 
ticipating with much pleasure and considerable 
doubt. 

August 31st dawned fine and cool and pleasant, 
rather hazy, with warm sun and smooth sea. 

The night before we had sat in front of our tents 
above the beach and watched the flying-fish come 
out in twos and threes and schools, all the way 
down the rugged coast. I told the captain then 
that swordfish were chasing them. But he was 
skeptical. 

This morning I remembered, and I was watching. 
Just at the Glory Hole my brother yelled, "Strike!" 
I did not see the fish before he hit the bait. It is 
really remarkable how these swordfish can get to 
a bait on the surface without being seen. R. C. 
hooked the Marlin. 

The first leap showed the fish to be small. He 
did not appear to be much of a jumper or fighter. 
He leaped six times, and then tried to swim out to 
sea. Slow, steady work of R. C.'s brought him up 
to the boat in fifteen minutes. But we did not gaff 
him. We estimated his weight at one hundred and 
thirty pounds. Captain Dan cut the leader close 
to the hook. I watched the fish swim lazily away, 
apparently unhurt, and sure to recover. 

We got going again, and had scarce trolled a 
hundred yards when I saw something my com- 
panions missed. I stood up. 

"Well, this starts out like your day," I remarked 
to my brother. 

202 



SEVEN MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY 

Then he saw a purple shape weaving back of his 
bait and that galvanized him into attention. It 
always thrilled me to see a swordfish back of the 
bait. This one took hold and ran off to the right. 
When hooked it took line with a rush, began to 
thresh half out, and presently sounded. We lost 
the direction. It came up far ahead of the boat 
and began to leap and run on the surface. 

We followed while R. C. recovered the line. Then 
he held the fish well in hand; and in the short time 
of twelve minutes brought the leader to Dan's hand. 
The Marlin made a great splash as he was cut loose. 

"Say, two swordfish in less than half an hour!" I 
expostulated. "Dan, this might be the day." 

Captain Dan looked hopeful. We were always 
looking for that day which came once or twice each 
season. 

"I'm tired," said my brother. "Now you catch 
a couple." 

He talked about swordfish as carelessly as he 
used to talk about sunfish. But he was not in the 
least tired. I made him take up the rod again. I 
sensed events. The sea looked darkly rippling, in- 
viting, as if to lure us on. 

We had worked and drifted a little offshore. But 
that did not appear to put us out of the latitude of 
swordfish. Suddenly Captain Dan yelled, "Look 
out!" Then we all saw a blaze of purple back of 
R. C.'s bait. Dan threw out the clutch. But this 
Marlin was shy. He flashed back and forth. How 
swift! His motion was only a purple flash. He 
loomed up after the teasers. We had three of these 
flying-fish out as teasers, all close to the boat. I 

203 



TALES OP PISHES 

always wondered why the swordfish appear more 
attracted to the teasers than to our hooked baits 
only a few yards back. I made the mistake to pull 
the teasers away from this swordfish. Then he left 
us. 

I was convinced, however, that this was to be 
R. C.'s day, and so, much to his amaze and annoy- 
ance, I put away my rod. No sooner had I quit 
fishing than a big black tail showed a few yards 
out from R. C.'s bait. Then a shining streak shot 
across under the water, went behind R. C.'s bait, 
passed it, came again. This time I saw him plainly. 
He was big and hungry, but shy. He rushed the 
bait. I saw him take it in his pointed jaws and 
swerve out of sight, leaving a boil on the surface. 
R. C. did not give him time to swallow the hook, 
but struck immediately. The fish ran off two hun- 
dred yards and then burst up on the surface. He 
was a jumper, and as he stayed in sight we all be- 
gan to yell our admiration. He cleared the water 
forty-two times, all in a very few minutes. At the 
end of twenty-eight minutes R. C, with a red face 
and a bulging jaw, had the swordfish beaten and 
within reach of Captain Dan. 

"He's a big one — over two hundred and fifty," 
asserted that worthy. "Mebbe you won't strike 
a bigger one." 

"Cut him loose," I said, and my brother echoed 
my wish. 

It was a great sight to see that splendid sword- 
fish drift away from the boat — to watch him slowly 
discover that he was free. 

"Ten o'clock! We'll hang up two records to- 

204 




304 POUNDS 




R. C. GREY AND RECORD MARLIN 



SEVEN MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY 

day!" boomed Captain Dan, as with big, swift hands 
he put on another bait for R. C. 

"Do you fellows take me for a drag-horse?" in- 
quired R. C, mildly. "I've caught enough sword- 
fish for this year." 

"Why, man, it's the day!" exclaimed Captain 
Dan, in amaze and fear. 

"Humph!" replied my brother. 

"But the chance for a record!" I added, weakly. 
"Only ten o'clock. . . . Three swordfish already. . . . 
Great chance for Dan, you know. . . . Beat the 
dickens out of these other fishermen." 

"Aw, that's a lot of 'con'!" replied my brother. 

Very eloquently then I elaborated on the fact 
that we were releasing the fish, inaugurating a sports- 
man-like example never before done there; that it 
really bid fair to be a wonderful day; that I was 
having a great chance to snap pictures of leaping 
fish; that it would be a favor to me for him to go 
the limit on this one occasion. 

But R. C. showed no sign of wavering. He was 
right, of course, and I acknowledged that afterward 
to myself. On the instant, however, I racked my 
brain for some persuasive argument. Suddenly I 
had an inspiration. 

"They think you're a dub fisherman," I declared, 
forcefully. 

" They?" My brother glared darkly at me. 

"Sure," I replied, hurriedly, with no intention of 
explaining that dubious they. "Now's your chance 
to fool them." 

"Ahuh! All right, fetch on a flock of swordfish, 
and then some broadbills," remarked R. C, blandly. 

205 



TALES OF FISHES 

"Hurry, Dan! There's a fin right over there. Lead 
me to him! See." 

Sure enough, R. C. pointed out a dark sickle fin 
on the surface. I marveled at the sight. It cer- 
tainly is funny the luck some fishermen have! 
Captain Dan, beaming like a sunrise, swung the 
boat around toward the swordfish. 

That Marlin rushed the teasers. I pulled all 
three away from him, while R. C. was reeling in his 
bait to get it close. Then the swordfish fell all over 
himself after it. He got it. He would have climbed 
aboard after it. The way R. C. hooked this sword- 
fish showed that somebody had got his dander up 
and was out to do things. This pleased me im- 
mensely. It scared me a little, too, for R. C. 
showed no disposition to give line or be gentle to 
the swordfish. In fact, it was real fight now. And 
this particular fish appeared to have no show on 
earth — or rather in the water — and after fourteen 
leaps he was hauled up to the boat in such short order 
that if we had gaffed him, as we used to gaff Marlin, 
we would have had a desperate fight to hold him. 
But how easy to cut him free ! He darted down like 
a blue streak. I had no fair sight of him to judge 
weight, but Captain Dan said he was good and heavy. 

"Come on! Don't be so slow!" yelled R. C, with 
a roving eye over the deep. 

Captain Dan was in his element. He saw victory 
perched upon the mast of the Leta D. He moved 
with a celerity that amazed me, when I remembered 
how exasperatingly slow he could be, fooling with 
kites. This was Captain Dan's game. 

"The ocean's alive with swordfish!" he boomed. 

206 



SEVEN MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY 

Only twice before had I heard him say that, and 
he was right each time. I gazed abroad over the 
beautiful sea, and, though I could not see any 
swordfish, somehow I believed him. It was difficult 
now, in this exciting zest of a record feat, to think 
of the nobler attributes of fishing. Strong, earnest, 
thrilling business it was indeed for Captain Dan. 

We all expected to see a swordfish again. That 
was exactly what happened. We had not gone a 
dozen boat-lengths when up out of the blue depths 
lunged a lazy swordfish and attached himself to 
R. C.'s hook. He sort of half lolled out in lazy 
splashes four or five times. He looked huge. All of 
a sudden he started off, making the reel hum. That 
run developed swiftly. Dan backed the boat full 
speed. In vain! It was too late to turn. That 
swordfish run became the swiftest and hardest I 
ever saw. A four-hundred-yard run, all at once, was 
something new even for me. I yelled for R. C. to 
throw off the drag. He tried, but failed. I doubted 
afterward if that would have done any good. That 
swordfish was going away from there. He broke 
the line. 

"Gee! What a run!" I burst out. "I'm sorry. 
I hate to break off hooks in fish." 

"Put your hand on my reel," said R. C. 

It was almost too hot to bear touching. R. C. 
began winding in the long slack line. 

"Did you see that one?" he asked, grimly. 

"Not plain. But what I did see looked big." 

"Say, he was a whale!" R. C.'s flashing eyes 
showed he had warmed to the battle. 

In just ten minutes another swordfish was chasing 

207 



TALES OF FISHES 

the teasers. It was my thrilling task to keep them 
away from him. Hard as I pulled, I failed to keep 
at least one of them from him. He took it with a 
"wop," his bill half out of the water, and as he 
turned with a splash R. C. had his bait right there. 
Smash! The swordfish sheered off, with the bait 
shining white in his bill. When hooked he broke 
water about fifty yards out and then gave an exhibi- 
tion of high and lofty tumbling, water-smashing, and 
spray-flinging that delighted us. Then he took to 
long, greyhound leaps and we had to chase him. 
But he did not last long, with the inexorable R. C. 
bending back on that Murphy rod. After being cut 
free, this swordfish lay on the surface a few moments, 
acting as if he was out of breath. He weighed about 
one hundred and fifty, and was a particularly beau- 
tiful specimen. The hook showed in the corner of 
his mouth. He did not have a scratch on his grace- 
ful bronze and purple and silver body. I waved my 
hat at him and then he slowly sank. 

"What next?" I demanded. "This can't keep up. 
Something is going to happen." 

But my apprehension in no wise disturbed R. C. 
or Captain Dan. 

They proceeded to bait up again, to put out the 
teasers, to begin to troll; and then almost at once a 
greedy swordfish appeared, absolutely fearless and 
determined. R. C. hooked him. The first leap 
showed the Marlin to be the smallest of the day so 
far. But what he lacked in weight he made up in 
activity. He was a great performer, and his forte 
appeared to be turning upside down in the air. 
He leaped clear twenty-two times. Then he settled 

208 





328-POUND RECORD MARLIN BY R. C. GREY. SHAPELIEST 
AND MOST BEAUTIFUL SPECIMEN EVER TAKEN 



SEVEN MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY 

down and tried to plug out to sea. Alas! that human 
steam-winch at the rod drew him right up to the 
boat, where he looked to weigh about one hundred 
and twenty-five pounds. 

"Six!" I exclaimed, as we watched the freed fish 
swim away. "That's the record. . . . And all let go 
alive — unhurt. . . . Do you suppose any one will be- 
lieve us?" 

"It doesn't make any difference," remarked my 
brother. "We know. That's the best of the game 
— letting the fish go alive." 

"Come on!" boomed Dan, with a big flying-fish 
in his hands. "You're not tired." 

"Yes, I am tired," replied R. C. 

"It's early yet," I put in. "We'll cinch the 
record for good. Grab the rod. I'll enjoy the 
work for you." 

R. C. resigned himself, not without some remarks 
anent the insatiable nature of his host and boatman. 

We were now off the east end of Clemente Island, 
that bleak and ragged corner where the sea, whether 
calm or stormy, contended eternally with the black 
rocks, and where the green and white movement of 
waves was never still. When almost two hundred 
yards off the yellow kelp-beds I saw a shadow darker 
than the blue water. It seemed to follow the boat, 
rather deep down and far back. But it moved. 
I was on my feet, thrilling. 

"That's a swordfish!" I called. 

"No," replied R. C. 

"Some wavin' kelp, mebbe," added Dan, doubt- 

fully. 

"Slow up a little," I returned. "I see purple." 
14 209 



TALES OF FISHES 

Captain Dan complied and we all watched. We 
all saw an enormous colorful body loom up, take 
the shape of a fish, come back of R. C.'s bait, hit it 
and take it. 

"By George!" breathed R. C, tensely. His line 
slowly slipped out a little, then stopped. 

"He's let go," said my brother. 

"There's another one," cried Dan. 

With that I saw what appeared to be another 
swordfish, deeper down, moving slowly. This one 
also looked huge to me. He was right under the 
teasers. It dawned upon me that he must have an 
eye on them, so I began to pull them in. 

As they came in the purple shadow seemed to 
rise. It was a swordfish and he resembled a gun- 
boat with purple outriggers. Slowly he came on- 
ward and upward, a wonderful sight. 

"Wind your bait in!" I yelled to R. C. 

Suddenly Dan became like a jumping-jack. 
"He's got your hook," he shouted to my brother. 
"He's had it all the time." 

The swordfish swam now right under the stern 
of the boat so that I could look down upon him. 
He was deep down, but not too deep to look huge. 
Then I saw R. C.'s leader in his mouth. He had 
swallowed the flying-fish bait and had followed us 
for the teasers. The fact was stunning. R. C, 
who had been winding in, soon found out that his 
line went straight down. He felt the fish. Then 
with all his might he jerked to hook that swordfish. 

Just then, for an instant my mind refused to work 
swiftly. It was locked round some sense of awful 
expectancy. I remembered my camera in my 

210 



SEVEN MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY 

hands and pointed it where I expected something 
wonderful about to happen. 

The water on the right, close to the stern, bulged 
and burst with a roar. Upward even with us, above 
us, shot a tremendously large, shiny fish, shaking 
and wagging, with heavy slap of gills. 

Water deluged the boat, but missed me. I act- 
ually smelled that fish, he was so close. What must 
surely have been terror for me, had I actually seen 
and realized the peril, gave place to flashing thought 
of the one and great chance for a wonderful picture 
of a big swordfish close to the boat. That gripped 
me. While I changed the focus on my camera I 
missed seeing the next two jumps. But I heard the 
heavy sousing splashes and the yells of Dan and 
R. C, with the shrill screams of the ladies. 

When I did look up to try to photograph the next 
leap of the swordfish I saw him, close at hand, mon- 
strous and animated, in a surging, up-sweeping 
splash. I heard the hiss of the boiling foam. He 
lunged away, churning the water like a sudden whirl 
of a ferryboat wheel, and then he turned squarely 
at us. Even then Captain Dan's yell did not warn 
us. I felt rather than saw that he had put on full 
speed ahead. The swordfish dove toward us, went 
under, came up in a two-sheeted white splash, and 
rose high and higher, to fall with a cracking sound. 
Like a flash of light he shot up again, and began 
wagging his huge purple-barred body, lifting him- 
self still higher, until all but his tail stood ponder- 
ously above the surface; and then, incredibly power- 
ful, he wagged and lashed upright in a sea of hissing 

foam, mouth open wide, blood streaming down his 

211 



TALES OF FISHES 

wet sides and flying in red spray from his slapping 
gills — a wonderful and hair-raising spectacle. He 
stayed up only what seemed a moment. During 
this action and when he began again to leap and 
smash toward us, I snapped my camera three times 
upon him. But I missed seeing some of his greatest 
leaps because I had to look at the camera while 
operating it. 

"Get back!" yelled Dan, hoarsely. 

I was so excited I did not see the danger of the 
swordfish coming aboard. But Captain Dan did. 
He swept the girls back into the cabin doorway, and 
pushed Mrs. R. C. into a back corner of the cockpit. 
Strange it seemed to me how pale Dan was! 

The swordfish made long, swift leaps right at the 
boat. On the last he hit us on the stern, but too 
low to come aboard. Six feet closer to us would 
have landed that huge, maddened swordfish right 
in the cockpit! But he thumped back, and the 
roar of his mighty tail on the water so close suddenly 
appalled me. I seemed to grasp how near he had 
come aboard at the same instant that I associated 
the power of his tail with a havoc he would have 
executed in the boat. It flashed over me that he 
would weigh far over three hundred. 

When he thumped back the water rose in a sound- 
ing splash, deluging us and leaving six inches in the 
cockpit. He sheered off astern, sliding over the 
water in two streaks of white running spray, and 
then up he rose again in a magnificent wild leap. 
He appeared maddened with pain and fright and 
instinct to preserve his life. 

Again the fish turned right at us. This instant 



SEVEN MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY 

was the most terrifying. Not a word from R. C! 
But out of the tail of my eye I saw him crouch, ready 
to leap. He grimly held on to his rod, but there had 
not been a tight line on it since he struck the fish. 

Yelling warningly, Captain Dan threw the wheel 
hard over. But that seemed of no use. We could 
not lose the swordfish. 

He made two dives into the air, and the next 
one missed us by a yard, and showed his great, 
glistening, striped body, thick as a barrel, and 
curved with terrible speed and power, right along- 
side the cockpit. He passed us, and as the boat 
answered to the wheel and turned, almost at right 
angles, the swordfish sheered too, and he hit us a 
sounding thud somewhere foreward. Then he went 
under or around the bow and began to take line off 
the reel for the first time. I gave him up. The 
line caught all along the side of the boat. But it 
did not break, and kept whizzing off the reel. I 
heard the heavy splash of another jump. When we 
had turned clear round, what was our amaze and 
terror to see the swordfish, seemingly more tigerish 
than ever, thresh and tear and leap at us again. 
He was flinging bloody spray and wigwagging his 
huge body, so that there was a deep, rough splash- 
ing furrow in the sea behind him. I had never 
known any other fish so fast, so powerful, so wild 
with fury, so instinct with tremendous energy and 
life. Dan again threw all his weight on the wheel. 
The helm answered, the boat swung, and the sword- 
fish missed hitting us square. But he glanced along 
the port side, like a toboggan down-hill, and he 
seemed to ricochet over the water. His tail made 

213 



TALES OF FISHES 

deep, solid thumps. Then about a hundred feet 
astern he turned in his own length, making a mael- 
strom of green splash and white spray, out of which 
he rose three-quarters of his huge body, purple- 
blazed, tiger-striped, spear-pointed, and, with the 
sea boiling white around him, he spun around, 
creating an indescribable picture of untamed ferocity 
and wild life and incomparable beauty. Then down 
he splashed with a sullen roar, leaving a red foam 
on the white. 

That appeared the end of his pyrotechnics. It had 
been only a few moments. He began to swim off 
slowly and heavily. We followed. After a few 
tense moments it became evident that his terrible 
surface work had weakened him, probably bursting 
his gills, from which his life-blood escaped. 

We all breathed freer then. Captain Dan left 
the wheel, mopping his pale, wet face. He gazed 
at me to see if I had realized our peril. With the 
excitement over, I began to realize. I felt a little 
shaky then. The ladies were all talking at once, 
still glowing with excitement. Easy to see they had 
not appreciated the danger! But Captain Dan and 
I knew that if the swordfish had come aboard — 
which he certainly would have done had he ever 
slipped his head over the gunwale — there would 
have been a tragedy on the Leta D. 

"I never knew just how easy it could happen," 
said Dan. "No one ever before hooked a big fish 
right under the boat." 

"With that weight, that tail, right after being 
hooked, he would have killed some of us and wrecked 
the boat!" I exclaimed, aghast. 

214 



SEVEN MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY 

"Well, I had him figured to come into the boat 
and I was ready to jump overboard," added my 
brother. 

"We won't cut him loose," said Dan. "That's 
some fish. But he acts like he isn't goin' to last 
long." 

Still, it took two hours longer of persistent, final 
effort on the part of R. C. to bring this swordfish 
to gaff. We could not lift the fish up on the stern 
and we had to tow him over to Mr. Jump's boat 
and there haul him aboard by block and tackle. 
At Avalon he weighed three hundred and twenty- 
eight pounds. 

R. C. had caught the biggest Marlin in 1916 — 
three hundred and four pounds, and this three-hun- 
dred-and-twenty-eight-pound fish was the largest 
for 1918. Besides, there was the remarkable achieve- 
ment and record of seven swordfish in one day, with 
six of them freed to live and roam the sea again. 
But R. C. was not impressed. He looked at his 
hands and said: 

"You and Dan put a job up on me. . . . Never 



again 



XII 



RANDOM NOTES 

Avalon, July 1, 1918. 

COOL, foggy morning; calm sea up until one 
o'clock, then a west wind that roughened the 
water white. No strikes. Did not see a fish. 
Trolled with kite up to the Isthmus and back. When 
the sun came out its warmth was very pleasant. 
The slopes seemed good to look at — so steep and 
yellow-gray with green spots, and long slides run- 
ning down to the shore. The tips of the hills were 
lost in the fog. It was lonely on the sea, and I be- 
gan again to feel the splendor and comfort of the 
open spaces, the free winds, the canopy of gray and 
blue, the tidings from afar. 

July 3d. 

Foggy morning; pale line of silver on eastern 
horizon; swell, but no wind. Warm. After a 
couple of hours fog disintegrated. Saw a big Marlin 
swordfish. Worked him three times, then charged 
him. No use! 

Gradually rising wind. Ran up off Long Point 
and back. At 3:30 was tired. We saw a school of 
tuna on the surface. Flew the kite over them. 
One big fellow came clear out on his side and got 

216 



RANDOM NOTES 

the hook. He made one long run, then came in 
rather easily. Time, fifteen minutes. He was bad- 
ly hooked. Seventy-eight pounds. 

We trolled then until late afternoon. I saw some 
splashes far out. Tuna! We ran up. Found patches 
of anchovies. I had a strike. Tuna hooked him- 
self and got off. We tried again. I had another 
come clear out in a smashing charge. He ran off 
heavy and fast. It took fifty minutes of very hard 
work to get him in. He weaved back of the boat 
for half an hour and gave me a severe battle. He 
was hooked in the corner of the mouth and was a 
game, fine fish. Seventy-three and one-half pounds. 

July 6th. 

Started out early. Calm, cool, foggy morning; 
rather dark. Sea smooth, swelling, heaving. Mys- 
terious, like a shadowed opal. Long mounds of 
water waved noiselessly, wonderfully, ethereally from 
the distance, and the air was hazy, veiled, and dim. 
A lonely, silent vastness. 

We saw several schools of tuna, but got no strikes. 
Worked a Marlin swordfish, but he would not notice 
the bait. 

It was a long, hard day on the sea. 

July 10th. 

We got off at 6 :30 before the other boats. Smooth 
water. Little breeze. Saw a school of tuna above 
Long Point. Put up the kite. The school went 
down. But R. C. got a little strike. Did not hook 
fish. 

Then we sighted a big school working east. We 

followed it, running into a light wind. Kite blew 

217 



TALES OF FISHES 

O. K. and R. C. got one fish (seventy-one pounds), 
then another (forty-eight pounds). They put up 
fair fights. 

Then I tried light tackle. All the time the school 
traveled east, going down and coming up. The first 
fish that charged my bait came clear out after it. 
He got it and rushed away. I had the light drag 
on, and I did not thumb the pad hard, but the tuna 
broke the line. We tried again. Had another 
thrilling strike. The fish threw the hook. We had 
to pull in the kite, put up another one — get it out, 
and all the time keep the school in sight. The tuna 
traveled fast. The third try on light tackle resulted 
in another fine strike, and another tuna that broke 
the line. 

Then R. C. tried the heavy tackle again, and lost 
a fish. 

When my turn came I was soon fast to a hard- 
fighting fish, but he did not stay with me long. 
This discouraged me greatly. 

Then R. C. took his rod once more. It was 
thrilling to run down on the school and skip a flying- 
fish before the leaders as they rolled along, fins out, 
silver sides showing, raising little swells and leaving 
a dark, winkling, dimpling wake behind them. 
When the bait got just right a larger tuna charged 
furiously, throwing up a great splash. He hit the 
bait, and threw the hook before R. C. could strike 
hard. 

We had nine bites out of this school. Followed it 
fifteen miles. Twice we were worried by other 
boats, but for the rest of the time had the school 
alone. 

218 



RANDOM NOTES 

July 11th. 

Morning was cold, foggy, raw. East wind. Dis- 
agreeable. Trolled out about six miles and all 
around. Finally ran in off east end, where I caught 
a yellow-fin. The sun came up, but the east wind 
persisted. No fish. Came in early. 

July 12th. 

Went out early. Clear morning. Cool. Rip- 
pling sea. Fog rolled down like a pale-gray wall. 
Misty, veiled, vague, strange, opaque, silent, wet, 
cold, heavy! It enveloped us. Then we went out 
of the bank into a great circle, clear and bright, with 
heaving, smooth sea, surrounded by fog. 

After an hour or two the fog rose and drifted away. 

We trolled nine hours. Three little fish struck at 
the bait, but did not get the hook. 

August 6th. 

To-day I went out alone with Dan. Wonderful 
sea. Very long, wide, deep, heaving swells, beauti- 
ful and exhilarating to watch. No wind. Not very 
foggy. Sunshine now and then. I watched the 
sea — marveled at its grace, softness, dimpled dark 
beauty, its vast, imponderable racing, its restless 
heaving, its eternal motion. I learned from it. I 
found loneliness, peace. 

Saw a great school of porpoises coming. Ran tow- 
ard them. About five hundred all crashing in and 
out of the great swells, making a spectacle of rare sea 
action and color and beauty. They surrounded the 
bow of the boat, and then pandemonium broke 
loose. They turned to play with us, racing, diving, 

219 



TALES OF FISHES 

leaping, shooting — all for our delight. I stood right 
up on the bow and could see deep. It was an un- 
forgetable experience. 

August 7th. 

Long run to-day, over eighty miles. East to 
Point Vincent, west to end of Catalina, then all 
around. Fine sea and weather. Just right for kite. 
Saw many ducks and a great number of big sharks. 
The ducks were traveling west, the sharks east. 
We saw no tuna. 

Coming back the wind sprang up and we had a 
following sea. It was fine to watch the green-and- 
white rollers breaking behind us. 

The tuna appear to be working farther and farther 
off the east end. Marlin swordfish have showed up 
off the east end. Three caught yesterday and one 
to-day. I have not yet seen a broadbill, and fear 
none are coming this year. 

August 8th. 

Went off east end. Had a Marlin strike. The 
fish missed the hook. A shark took the bait. When 
it was pulled in to the gaff Captain Dan caught the 
leader, drew the shark up, and it savagely bit the 
boat. Then it gave a flop and snapped Captain 
Dan's hand. 

I was frightened. The captain yelled for me to 
hit the shark with a club. I did not lose a second. 
The shark let go. We killed it, and found Dan's 
hand badly lacerated. My swiftness of action saved 
Dan's hand. 



XIII 

BIG TUNA 

IT took me five seasons at Catalina to catch a big 
tuna, and the event was so thrilling that I had to 
write to my fisherman friends about it. The result of 
my effusions seem rather dubious. Robert H. Davis, 
editor of Munsey's, replies in this wise: "If you 
went out with a mosquito-net to catch a mess of 
minnows your story would read like Roman gladia- 
tors seining the Tigris for whales." Now, I am at 
a loss to know how to take that compliment. Davis 
goes on to say more, and he also quotes me: "You 
say 'the hard, diving fight of a tuna liberates the 
brute instinct in a man.' Well, Zane, it also liber- 
ates the qualities of a liar!" Davis does not love 
the sweet, soft scent that breathes from off the sea. 
Once on the Jersey coast I went tuna-fishing with 
him. He was not happy on the boat. But once he 
came up out of the cabin with a jaunty feather in 
his hat. I admired it. I said: 

"Bob, I'll have to get something like that for my 
hat." 

"Zane," he replied, piercingly, "what you need 
for your hat is a head!" 

My friend Joe Bray, who publishes books in 

Chicago, also reacts peculiarly to my fish stories. 

221 



TALES OF FISHES 

He writes me a satiric, doubting letter — then shuts 
up his office and rushes for some river or lake. 
Will Dilg, the famous fly-caster, upon receipt of my 
communication, wrote me a nine-page prose-poem 
epic about the only fish in the world — black-bass. 
Professor Kellogg always falls ill and takes a vaca- 
tion, during which he writes me that I have not 
mental capacity to appreciate my luck. 

These fellows will illustrate how my friends re- 
ceive angling news from me. I ought to have sense 
enough to keep my stories for publication. I strong- 
ly suspect that their strange reaction to my friendly 
feeling is because I have caught more and larger 
black -bass than they ever saw. Some day I 
will go back to the swift streams and deep lakes, 
where the bronze - backs live, and fish with my 
friends, and then they will realize that I never 
lie about the sport and beauty and wonder of the 
great outdoors. 

Every season for the five years that I have been 
visiting Avalon there has been a run of tuna. But 
the average weight was from sixty to ninety-five 
pounds. Until this season only a very few big tuna 
had been taken. The prestige of the Tuna Club, 
the bragging of the old members, the gossip of the 
boatmen — all tend to make a fisherman feel small 
until he has landed a big one. Come to think of 
it, considering the years of the Tuna Club fame, not 
so very many anglers have captured a blue-button 
tuna. I vowed I did not care in particular about 
it, but whenever we ran across a school of tuna I 
acted like a boy. 

A good many tuna fell to my rod during these 

222 



BIG TUNA 

seasons. During the present season, to be exact, I 
caught twenty-two. This is no large number for 
two months' fishing. Boschen caught about one 
hundred; Jump, eighty-four; Hooper, sixty. Among 
these tuna I fought were three that stand out 
strikingly. One seventy-three-pounder took fifty 
minutes of hard fighting to subdue; a ninety-one- 
pounder took one hour fifty; and the third, after 
two hours and fifty minutes, got away. It seems, 
and was proved later, that the number fifty figured 
every time I hooked one of the long, slim, hard- 
fighting male tuna. 

Beginning late in June, for six weeks tuna were 
caught almost every day, some days a large number 
being taken. But big ones were scarce. Then one 
of the Tuna Club anglers began to bring in tuna 
that weighed well over one hundred pounds. This 
fact inspired all the anglers. He would slip out 
early in the morning and return late at night. No- 
body knew where his boatman was finding these 
fish. More than one boatman tried to follow him, 
but in vain. Quite by accident it was discovered 
that he ran up on the north side of the island, clear 
round the west end. When he was discovered on 
the west side he at once steered toward Clemente 
Island, evidently hoping to mislead his followers. 
This might have succeeded but for the fact that 
both Bandini and Adams hooked big tuna before 
they had gone a mile. Then the jig was up. That 
night Adams came in with a one-hundred-and- 
twenty- and a one-hundred-and-thirty-six-pound 
tuna, and Bandini brought the record for this season 
— one hundred and forty-nine pounds. 

223 



TALES OF FISHES 

Next day we were all out there on the west side, 
a few miles offshore. The ocean appeared to be full 
of blackfish. They are huge, black marine creatures, 
similar to a porpoise in movement, but many times 
larger, and they have round, blunt noses that look 
like battering-rams. Some seemed as big as gun- 
boats, and when they heaved up on the swells we 
could see the white stripes below the black. I was 
inclined to the belief that this species was the orca, 
a whale-killing fish. Boatmen and deep-sea men re- 
port these blackfish to be dangerous and had better 
be left alone. They certainly looked ugly. We be- 
lieved they were chasing tuna. 

The channel that day contained more whales 
than I ever saw before at one time. We counted six 
pairs in sight. I saw as many as four of the funnel- 
like whale spouts of water on the horizon at once. 
It was very interesting to watch these monsters of 
the deep. Once when we were all on top of the 
boat we ran almost right upon two whales. The 
first spouted about fifty feet away. The sea seemed 
to open up, a terrible roar issued forth, then came 
a cloud of spray and rush of water. Then we saw 
another whale just rising a few yards ahead. My 
hair stood up stiff. Captain Dan yelled, leaped 
down to reverse the engine. The whale saw us and 
swerved. Dan's action and the quickness of the 
whale prevented a collision. As it was, I looked 
down in the clear water and saw the huge, gleaming, 
gray body of the whale as he passed. That was 
another sight to record in the book of memory. 
The great flukes of his tail moved with surprising 
swiftness and the water bulged on the surface. Then 

224 



BIG TUNA 

we ran close to the neighborhood of a school of 
whales, evidently feeding. They would come up 
and blow, and then sound. To see a whale sound 
and then raise his great, broad, shining flukes in the 
air, high above the water, is in my opinion the most 
beautiful spectacle to be encountered upon the 
ocean. Up to this day, during five seasons, I had 
seen three whales sound with tails in the air. And 
upon this occasion I had the exceeding good fortune 
to see seven. I tried to photograph one. We fol- 
lowed a big bull. When he came up to blow we saw 
a yellow moving space on the water, then a round, 
gray, glistening surface, then a rugged snout. Puff! 
His blow was a roar. He rolled on, downward a 
little; the water surged white and green. When 
he came up to sound he humped his huge back. It 
was shiny, leathery, wonderfully supple. It bent 
higher and higher in an arch. Then this great curve 
seemed to slide swiftly out of sight and his wonder- 
ful tail, flat as a floor and wide as a house, emerged 
to swing aloft. The water ran off it in sheets. Then 
it waved higher, and with slow, graceful, ponderous 
motion sank into the sea. That sight more than 
anything impressed me with the immensity of the 
ocean, with its mystery of life, with the unattainable 
secrets of the deep. 

The tuna appeared to be scattered, and none were 
on the surface. I had one strike that plowed up 
the sea, showing the difference between the strike 
of a big tuna and that of a little one. He broke my 
line on the first rush. Then I hooked another and 
managed to stop him. I had a grueling battle with 
him, and at the end of two hours and fifty minutes 

15 225 



TALES OF FISHES 

he broke my hook. This was a disappointment far 
beyond reason, but I could not help it. 

Next day was windy. The one following we could 
not find the fish, and the third day we all concluded 
they had gone for 1918. I think the fame of tuna, 
the uncertainty of their appearance, the difficulty 
of capturing a big one, are what excite the am- 
bition of anglers. Long effort to that end, and con- 
sequent thinking and planning and feeling, bring 
about a condition of mind that will be made clear 
as this story progresses. 

But Captain Danielson did not give up. The 
fifth day we ran off the west side with several other 
boats, and roamed the sea in search of fins. No 
anchovies on the surface, no sheerwater ducks, no 
sharks, nothing to indicate tuna. About one o'clock 
Captain Dan sheered southwest and we ran sixteen 
miles toward Clemente Island. 

It was a perfect day, warm, hazy, with light fog, 
smooth, heaving, opalescent sea. There was no 
wind. At two thirty not one of the other boats was 
in sight. At two forty Captain Dan sighted a large, 
dark, rippling patch on the water. We ran over closer. 

"School of tuna!" exclaimed the captain, with 
excitement. "Big fish! Oh, for some wind now 
to fly the kite!" 

"There's another school," said my brother, R. 
C, and he pointed to a second darkly gleaming spot 
on the smooth sea. 

"I've spotted one, too!" I shouted. 

"The ocean's alive with tuna — big tuna!" boomed 
Captain Dan. "Here we are alone, blue-button fish 
everywhere — and no wind." 

226 



BIG TUNA 

"We'll watch the fish and wait for wind," I said. 

This situation may not present anything remark- 
able to most fishermen. But we who knew the game 
realized at once that this was an experience of a life- 
time. We counted ten schools of tuna near at hand, 
and there were so many farther on that they seemed 
to cover the sea. 

"Boys," said Captain Dan, "here's the tuna we 
heard were at Anacapa Island last week. The Japs 
netted hundreds of tons. They're working southeast, 
right in the middle of the channel, and haven't 
been inshore at all. It's ninety miles to Anacapa. 
Some traveling! . . . That school close to us is the 
biggest school I ever saw and I believe they're the 
biggest fish." 

"Run closer to them," I said to him. 

We ran over within fifty feet of the edge of the 
school, stopped the boat, and all climbed up on top 
of the deck. 

Then we beheld a spectacle calculated to thrill 
the most phlegmatic fisherman. It simply enrapt- 
ured me, and I think I am still too close to it to 
describe it well. The dark-blue water, heaving in 
great, low, lazy swells, showed a roughened spot of 
perhaps two acres in extent. The sun, shining over 
our shoulders, caught silvery-green gleams of fish, 
flashing wide and changing to blue. Long, round, 
bronze backs deep under the surface, caught the sun- 
light. Blue fins and tails, sharp and curved, like 
sabers, cleared the water. Here a huge tuna would 
turn on his side, gleaming broad and bright, and 
there another would roll on the surface, breaking 
water like a tarpon with a slow, heavy souse. 

227 



TALES OF FISHES 

"Look at the leaders," said Captain Dan. "I'll 
bet they're three-hundred-pound fish." 

I saw then that the school, lazy as they seemed, 
were slowly following the leaders, rolling and riding 
the swells. These leaders threw up surges and 
ridges on the surface. They plowed the water. 

"What 'd happen if we skipped a flying-fish 
across the water in front of those leaders?" I asked 
Captain Dan. 

He threw up his hands. "You'd see a German 
torpedo explode." 

"Say! tuna are no relation to Huns!" put in my 
brother. 

It took only a few moments for the school to drift 
by us. Then we ran over to another school, with 
the same experience. In this way we visited several 
of these near-by schools, all of which were com- 
posed of large tuna. Captain Dan, however, said 
he believed the first two schools, evidently leaders 
of this vast sea of tuna, contained the largest fish. 
For half an hour we fooled around, watching the 
schools and praying for wind to fly the kite. Cap- 
tain Dan finally trolled our baits through one school, 
which sank without rewarding us with a strike. 

At this juncture I saw a tiny speck of a boat way 
out on the horizon. Captain Dan said it was 
Shorty's boat with Adams. I suggested that, as we 
had to wait for wind to fly the kite, we run in and 
attract Shorty's attention. I certainly wanted 
some one else to see those magnificent schools of 
tuna. Forthwith we ran in several miles until we 
attracted the attention of the boatman Captain Dan 
had taken to be Shorty. But it turned out to be 

228 



BIG TUNA 

somebody else, and my good intentions also turned 
out to my misfortune. 

Then we ran back toward the schools of tuna. 
On the way my brother hooked a Marlin swordfish 
that leaped thirty-five times and got away. After 
all those leaps he deserved to shake the hook. We 
found the tuna milling and lolling around, slowly 
drifting and heading toward the southeast. We 
also found a very light breeze had begun to come 
out of the west. Captain Dan wanted to try to 
get the kite up, but I objected on the score that if 
we could fly it at all it would only be to drag a bait 
behind the boat. That would necessitate running 
through the schools of tuna, and as I believed this 
would put them down, I wanted to wait for enough 
wind to drag a bait at right angles with the boat. 
This is the proper procedure, because it enables an 
angler to place his bait over a school of tuna at a 
hundred yards or more from the boat. It certainly 
is the most beautiful and thrilling way to get a 
strike. 

So we waited. The boatman whose attention we 
had attracted had now come up and was approach- 
ing the schools of tuna some distance below us. 
He put out a kite that just barely flew off the water 
and it followed directly in the wake of his boat. 
We watched this with disgust, but considerable in- 
terest, and we were amazed to see one of the anglers 
in that boat get a strike and hook a fish. 

That put us all in a blaze of excitement. Still we 
thought the strike they got might just have been 
lucky. In running down farther, so we could come 
back against the light breeze, we ran pretty close 



TALES OF FISHES 

to the school out of which the strike had been gotten. 
Captain Dan stood up to take a good look. 

"They're hundred-pounders, all right," he said. 
"But they're not as big as the tuna in those two 
leading schools. I'm glad those ginks in that boat 
are tied up with a tuna for a spell." 

I took a look at the fisherman who was fighting 
the tuna. Certainly I did not begrudge him one, 
but somehow, so strange are the feelings of a fisher- 
man that I was mightily pleased to see that he was 
a novice at the game, was having his troubles, and 
would no doubt be a long, long time landing his 
tuna. My blood ran cold at the thought of other 
anglers appearing on the scene, and anxiously I 
scanned the horizon. No boat in sight! If I had 
only known then what sad experience taught me that 
afternoon I would have been tickled to pieces to see 
all the great fishermen of Avalon tackle this school 
of big tuna. 

Captain Dan got a kite up a little better than I 
had hoped for. It was not good, but it was worth 
trying. My bait, even on a turn of the boat, skipped 
along just at the edge of the wake of the boat. 
And the wake of a boat will almost always put a 
school of tuna down. 

We headed for the second school. My thrilling 
expectancy was tinged and spoiled with doubt. I 
skipped my bait in imitation of a flying-fish leaping 
and splashing along. We reached the outer edge 
of the school. Slowly the little boils smoothed out. 
Slowly the big fins sank. So did my heart. We 
passed the school. They all sank. And then when 
Captain Dan swore and I gave up there came a 

230 



BIG TUNA 

great splash back of my bait. I yelled and my 
comrades echoed me. The tuna missed. I skipped 
the bait. A sousing splash — and another tuna had 
my bait. My line sagged. I jerked hard. But 
too late! The tuna threw the hook before it got 
a hold. 

"They're hungry!" exclaimed Dan. "Hurry — 
reel the kite in. We'll get another bait on quick. 
. . . Look! that school is coming up again! They're 
not shy of boats. Boys, there's something doing." 

Captain Dan's excitement augmented my own. 
I sensed an unusual experience that had never be- 
fore befallen me. 

The school of largest fish was farther to the west. 
The breeze lulled. We could not fly the kite ex- 
cept with the motion and direction of the boat. 
It was exasperating. When we got close the kite 
flopped down into the water. Captain Dan used 
language. We ran back, picked up the kite. It 
was soaked, of course, and would not fly. While 
Dan got out a new kite, a large silk one which we 
had not tried yet, we ran down to the eastward of 
the second school. To our surprise and delight this 
untried kite flew well without almost any wind. 

We got in position and headed for the school. 
I was using a big hook half embedded near the tail 
of the flying-fish and the leader ran through the 
bait. It worked beautifully. A little jerk of my 
rod sent the bait skittering over the water, for all 
the world like a live flying-fish. I knew now that 
I would get another strike. Just as we reached a 
point almost opposite the school of tuna they 
headed across our bow, so that it seemed inevitable 

231 



TALES OF FISHES 

we must either run them down or run too close. 
My spirit sank to zero. Something presaged bad 
luck. I sensed disaster. I fought the feeling, but 
it persisted. Captain Dan swore. My brother 
shouted warnings from over us where he sat on top. 
But we ran right into the leaders. The school sank. 
I was sick and furious. 

"Jump your bait! It's not too late," called Dan. 

I did so. Smash! The water seemed to curl 
white and smoke. A tuna had my bait. I jerked. 
I felt him. He threw the hook. Half the bait re- 
mained upon it. Smash! A great boil and splash! 
Another tuna had that. I tried to jerk. But both 
kite and tuna pulling made my effort feeble. This 
one also threw out the hook. It came out with a 
small piece of mangled red flying-fish still hanging 
to it. Instinctively I jumped that remains of my 
bait over the surface. Smash! The third tuna 
cleaned the hook. 

Captain Dan waxed eloquent and profane. 

My brother said, "What do you know about that?" 

As for myself, I was stunned one second and 
dazzled the next. Three strikes on one bait! It 
seemed disaster still clogged my mind, but what 
had already happened was new and wonderful. 
Half a mile below us I saw the angler still fighting 
the tuna he had hooked. I wanted him to get it, 
but I hoped he would be all afternoon on the job. 

"Hurry, Cap!" was all I said. 

Ordinarily Dan is the swiftest of boatmen. To- 
day he was slower than molasses and all he did went 
wrong. What he said about the luck was more than 
melancholy. I had no way to gauge my own feel- 

232 



BIG TUNA 

ings because I had never had such an experience 
before. Nor had I ever heard or read of any one 
having it. 

We got a bait on and the kite out just in time to 
reach the first and larger school. I was so excited 
that I did not see we were heading right into it. 
My intent gaze was riveted upon my bait as it 
skimmed the surface. The swells were long, low, 
smooth mounds. My bait went out of sight behind 
one. It was then I saw water fly high and I 
felt a tug. I jerked so hard I nearly fell over. My 
bait shot over the top of the swell. Then that swell 
opened and burst — a bronze back appeared. He 
missed the hook. Another tuna, also missing, 
leaped into the air — a fish of one hundred and fifty 
pounds, glittering green and silver and blue, jaws 
open, fins stiff, tail quivering, clear and clean-cut 
above the surface. Again we all yelled. Actually 
before he fell there was another smash and another 
tuna had my bait. This one I hooked. His rush 
was irresistible. I released the drag on the reel. 
It whirled and whizzed. The line threw a fine spray 
into my face. Then the tip of my rod flew up with 
a jerk, the line slacked. We all knew what that 
meant. I reeled in. The line had broken above the 
few feet of double line which we always used next 
the leader. More than ever disaster loomed over 
me. The feeling was unshakable now. 

Nevertheless, I realized that wonderful good fort- 
une attended us in the fact that the school of big 
tuna had scarcely any noticeable fear of the boat; 
they would not stay down, and they were ravenous. 

On our next run down upon them I had a smashing 

233 



TALES OF FISHES 

strike. The tuna threw the hook. Another got 
the bait and I hooked him. He sounded. The line 
broke. We tried again. No sooner had we reached 
the school when the water boiled and foamed at 
my bait. Before I could move that tuna cleaned 
the hook. Our next attempt gained another sous- 
ing strike. But he was so swift and I was so slow 
that I could not fasten to him. 

"He went away from here," my brother said, with 
what he meant for comedy. But it was not funny. 

Captain Dan then put on a double hook, embed- 
ding it so one hook stood clear of the bait. We 
tested my line with the scales and it broke at fifty- 
three pounds, which meant it was a good strong 
line. The breeze lulled and fanned at intervals. 
It seemed, however, we did not need any breeze. 
We had edged our school of big tuna away from the 
other schools, and it was milling on the surface, 
lazily and indifferently. But what latent speed and 
power lay hidden in that mass of lolling tuna. 

R. C. from his perch above yelled: "Look out! 
You're going to drag your bait in front of the leaders 
this time!" 

That had not happened yet. I glowed in spite 
of the fact that I was steeped in gloom. We were 
indeed heading most favorably for the leaders. 
Captain Dan groaned. "Never seen the like of 
this!" he added. These leaders were several yards 
apart, as could be told by the blunt-nosed ridges of 
water they shoved ahead of them. That was another 
moment added to the memorable moments of my 
fishing years. It was strained suspense. Hope 
would not die, but disaster loomed like a shadow. 

234 



BIG TUNA 

Before I was ready, before we expected anything, 
before we got near these leaders, a brilliant, hissing, 
white splash burst out of the sea, and a tuna of mag- 
nificent proportions shot broadside along and above 
the surface, sending the spray aloft, and he hit that 
bait with incredible swiftness, raising a twenty-foot- 
square, furious splash as he hooked himself. I sat 
spellbound. I heard my line whistling off the reel. 
But I saw only that swift-descending kite. So swift- 
ly did the tuna sound that the kite shot down as if 
it had been dropping lead. My line broke and my 
rod almost leaped out of my hands. 

We were all silent a moment. The school of tuna 
showed again, puttering and fiddling around, with 
great blue-and-green flashes caught by the sun. 

"That one weighed about two hundred and fifty," 
was all Captain Dan said. 

R. C. remarked facetiously, evidently to cheer me, 
" Jakey, you picks de shots out of that plue jay an' 
we makes ready for anudder one!' 9 

"Say, do you imagine you can make me laugh!" 
I asked, in tragic scorn. 

"Well, if you could have seen yourself when that 
tuna struck you'd have laughed," replied he. 

While Dan steered the boat R. C. got out on the 
bow and gaffed the kite. I watched the tuna tails 
standing like half -simitars out of the smooth, colored 
water. The sun was setting in a golden haze 
spotted by pink clouds. The wind, if anything, was 
softer than ever; in fact, we could not feel it unless 
we headed the boat into it. The fellow below us was 
drifting off farther, still plugging at his tuna. 

Captain Dan put the wet kite on the deck to dry 

235 



TALES OF FISHES 

and got out another silk one. It soared aloft so 
easily that I imagined our luck was changing. Vain 
fisherman's delusion ! Nothing could do that. There 
were thousands of tons — actually thousands of tons 
of tuna in that three-mile stretch of ruffled water, 
but I could not catch one. It was a settled convic- 
tion. I was reminded of what Enos, the Portuguese 
boatman, complained to an angler he had out, "You 
mos' unluck' fisherman I ever see!" 

We tried a shorter kite-line and a shorter length 
of my line, and we ran down upon that mess of tuna 
once more. It was strange — and foolish — how we 
stuck to that school of biggest fish. This time Dan 
headed right into the thick of them. Out of the 
corners of my eyes I seemed to see tuna settling down 
all around. Suddenly my brother yelled. 

Zam! That was a huge loud splash back of my 
bait. The tuna missed. R. C. yelled again. Cap- 
tain Dan followed suit: 

"He's after it! . . . Oh, he's the biggest yet!" 

Then I saw a huge tuna wallowing in a surge 
round my bait. He heaved up, round and big as 
a barrel, flashing a wide bar of blue-green, and he 
got the hook. If he had been strangely slow he 
was now unbelievably swift. His size gave me 
panic. I never moved, and he hooked himself. 
Straight down he shot and the line broke. 

My brother's sympathy now was as sincere as 
Captain Dan's misery. I asked R. C. to take the 
rod and see if he could do better. 

"Not much!" he replied. "When you get one, 
then I'll try. Stay with 'em, now!" 

Not improbably I would have stayed out until 

236 



BIG TUNA 

the tuna quit if that had taken all night. Three 
more times we put up the kite — three more flying- 
fish we wired on the double hooks — three more runs 
we made through that tantalizing school of tuna 
that grew huger and swifter and more impossible 
— three more smashing wide breaks of water on the 
strike — and quicker than a flash three more broken 
lines ! 

I imagined I was resigned. My words to my silent 
comrades were even cheerful. 

"Come on. Try again. Where there's life there's 
hope. It's an exceedingly rare experience — any- 
way. After all, nothing depends upon my catching 
one of these tuna. It doesn't matter." 

All of which attested to the singular state of my 
mind. 

Another kite, another leader and double hook, 
another bait had to be arranged. This took time. 
My impatience, my nervousness were hard to restrain. 
Captain Dan was pale and grim. I do not know how 
I looked. Only R. C. no longer looked at me. 

As we put out the bait we made the discovery 
that the other anglers, no doubt having ended their 
fight, were running down upon our particular school 
of tuna. This was in line with our luck. Other 
schools of tuna were in sight, but these fellows had 
to head for ours. It galled me when I thought how 
sportsman-like I had been to attract their attention. 
We aimed to head them off and reach the school 
first. As we were the closest all augured well for 
our success. But gloom invested whatever hopes 
I had. 

We beat the other boat. We had just gotten our 

237 



TALES OF FISHES 

boat opposite the school of tuna when Dan yelled: 
"Look out for that bunch of kelp! Jump your 
bait over it!" 

Then I spied the mass of floating seaweed. I knew 
absolutely that my hook was going to snag it. But 
I tried to be careful, quick, accurate. I jumped 
my bait. It fell short. The hook caught fast in 
the kelp. In the last piece! The kite fluttered like 
a bird with broken wings and dropped. Captain 
Dan reversed the boat. Then he burst out. Now 
Dan was a big man and he had a stentorian voice, 
deep like booming thunder. No man ever swore as 
Dan swore then. It was terrible. It was justified. 
But it was funny, and despite all this agony of disap- 
pointment, despite the other boat heading into the 
tuna and putting them down, I laughed till I cried. 

The fishermen in that other boat hooked a fish 
and broke it off. We saw from the excitement on 
board that they had realized the enormous size of 
these tuna. We hurried to get ready again. It 
was only needful to drag a bait anywhere near 
that school. And we alternated with the other boat. 
I saw those fishermen get four more strikes and lose 
the four fish immediately. I had even worse luck. 
In fact, disaster grew and grew. But there is no 
need for me to multiply these instances. The last 
three tunas I hooked broke the double line on the 
first run. This when I had on only a slight drag! 

The other boat puddled around in our school and 
finally put it down for good, and, as the other schools 
had disappeared, we started for home. 

This was the most remarkable and unfortunate 
day I ever had on the sea, where many strange fish- 

238 



BIG TUNA 

ing experiences have been mine. Captain Dan had 
never heard of the like in eighteen years as boatman. 
No such large-sized tuna, not to mention numbers, 
had visited Catalina for many years. I had thirteen 
strikes, not counting more than one strike to a bait. 
Seven fish broke the single line and three the double 
line, practically, I might say, before they had run 
far enough to cause any great strain. And the part- 
ing of the double line, where, if a break had occurred, 
it would have come on the single, convinced us that 
all these lines were cut. Cut by other tuna! In 
this huge school of hungry fish, whenever one ran 
for or with a bait, all the others dove pellmell after 
him. The line, of course, made a white streak in 
the water. Perhaps the tuna bit it off. Perhaps 
they crowded it off. However they did it, the fact 
was that they cut the line. Probably it would have 
been impossible to catch one of those large tuna on 
the Tuna Club tackle. I hated to think of break- 
ing off hooks in fish, but, after it was too late, I re- 
membered with many a thrill the size and beauty 
and tremendous striking energy of those tuna, the 
wide, white, foamy, furious boils on the surface, the 
lunges when hooked, and the runs swift as bullets. 

That experience would never come to me again. 
It was like watching for the rare transformations of 
nature that must be waited for and which come so 
seldom. 

But, such is the persistence of mankind in general 
and the doggedness of fishermen in particular, Cap- 
tain Dan and I kept on roaming the seas in search 
of tuna. Nothing more was seen or heard of the 

239 



TALES OF FISHES 

great drifting schools. They had gone down the 
channel toward Mexico, down with the mysterious 
currents of the sea, fulfilling their mission in life. 
However, different anglers reported good-sized tuna 
off Seal Rocks and Silver Canon. Several fish were 
hooked. Mr. Reed brought in a one-hundred-and- 
forty-one-pound tuna that took five hours to land. 
It made a dogged, desperate resistance and was al- 
most unbeatable. Mr. Reed is a heavy, powerful 
man, and he said this tuna gave him the hardest 
task he ever attempted. I wondered what I would 
have done with one of those two- or three-hundred- 
pounders. There is a difference between Pacific 
and Atlantic tuna. The latter are seacows com- 
pared to these blue pluggers of the West. I have 
hooked several very large tuna along the Seabright 
coast, and, though these fish got away, they did not 
give me the battle I have had with small tuna of the 
Pacific. Mr. Wortheim, fishing with my old boat- 
man, Horse-mackerel Sam, landed a two-hundred- 
and-sixty-two-pound Atlantic tuna in less than two 
hours. Sam said the fish made a loggy, rolling, easy 
fight. Crowninshield, also fishing with Sam, caught 
one weighing three hundred pounds in rather short 
order. This sort of feat cannot be done out here in 
the Pacific. The deep water here may have some- 
thing to do with it, but the tuna are different, if 
not in species, then in disposition. 

My lucky day came after no tuna had been re- 
ported for a week. Captain Dan and I ran out off 
Silver Canon just on a last forlorn hope. The sea 
was rippling white and blue, with a good breeze. 
No whales showed. We left Avalon about one 

240 



BIG TUNA 

o'clock, ran out five miles, and began to fish. Our 
methods had undergone some change. We used a 
big kite out on three hundred yards of line; we tied 
this line on my leader, and we tightened the drag 
on the reel so that it took a nine-pound pull to start 
the line off. This seemed a fatal procedure, but I 
was willing to try anything. My hope of getting a 
strike was exceedingly slim. Instead of a flying- 
fish for bait we used a good-sized smelt, and we used 
hooks big and strong and sharp as needles. 

We had not been out half an hour when Dan left 
the wheel and jumped up on the gunwale to look 
at something. 

"What do you see?" I asked, eagerly. 

He was silent a moment. I dare say he did not 
want to make any mistakes. Then he jumped back 
to the wheel. 

"School of tuna!" he boomed. 

I stood up and looked in the direction indicated, 
but I could not see them. Dan said only the move- 
ment on the water could be seen. Good long swells 
were running, rather high, and presently I did see 
tuna showing darkly bronze in the blue water. 
They vanished. We had to turn the boat somewhat, 
and it began to appear that we would have difficulty 
in putting the bait into the school. So it turned 
out. We were in the wrong quarter to use the wind. 
I saw the school of tuna go by, perhaps two hundred 
feet from the boat. They were traveling fast, some- 
what under the surface, and were separated from 
one another. They were big tuna, but nothing near 
the size of those that had wrecked my tackle and 
hopes. Captain Dan said they were hungry, hunt- 

16 241 



TALES OF FISHES 

ing fish. To me they appeared game, swift, and 
illusive. 

We lost sight of them. With the boat turned 
fairly into the west wind the kite soared, pulling 
hard, and my bait skipped down the slopes of the 
swells and up over the crests just like a live, leaping 
little fish. It was my opinion that the tuna were 
running inshore. Dan said they were headed west. 
We saw nothing of them. Again the old familiar 
disappointment knocked at my heart, with added 
bitterness of past defeat. Dan scanned the sea like 
a shipwrecked mariner watching for a sail. 

" I see them ! . . . There !" he called. " They're sure 
traveling fast." 

That stimulated me with a shock. I looked and 
looked, but I could not see the darkened water. 
Moments passed, during which I stood up, watch- 
ing my bait as it slipped over the waves. I knew 
Dan would tell me when to begin to jump it. The 
suspense grew to be intense. 

"We'll catch up with them," said Dan, excitedly. 
"Everything's right now. Kite high, pulling hard 
— bait working fine. You're sure of a strike. . . . 
When you see one get the bait hook him quick and 
hard." 

The ambition of years, the long patience, the end- 
less efforts, the numberless disappointments, and 
that never-to-be-forgotten day among the giant 
tuna— these flashed up at Captain Dan's words of 
certainty, and, together with the thrilling proximity 
of the tuna we were chasing, they roused in me 
emotion utterly beyond proportion or reason. This 
had happened to me before, notably in swordfishing, 

242 



BIG TUNA 

but never had I felt such thrills, such tingling nerves, 
such oppression on my chest, such a wild, eager 
rapture. It would have been impossible, notwith- 
standing my emotional temperament, if the leading 
up to this moment had not included so much long- 
sustained feeling. 

"Jump your bait!" called Dan, with a ring in his 
voice. "In two jumps you'll be in the tail-enders." 

I jerked my rod. The bait gracefully leaped over 
a swell — shot along the surface, and ended with a 
splash. Again I jerked. As the bait rose into the 
air a huge angry splash burst just under it, and a 
broad-backed tuna lunged and turned clear over, 
his tail smacking the water. 

"Jump it!" yelled Dan. 

Before I could move, a circling smash of white 
surrounded my bait. I heard it. With all my 
might I jerked. Strong and heavy came the weight 
of the tuna. I had hooked him. With one solid 
thumping splash he sounded. Here was test for line 
and test for me. I could not resist one turn of the 
thumb-wheel, to ease the drag. He went down 
with the same old incomparable speed. I saw the 
kite descending. Dan threw out the clutch — ran 
to my side. The reel screamed. Every tense sec- 
ond, as the line whizzed off, I expected it to break. 
There was no joy, no sport in that painful watching. 
He ran off two hundred feet, then, marvelous to see, 
he slowed up. The kite was still high, pulling hard. 
What with kite and drag and friction of line in the 
water, that tuna had great strain upon him. He 
ran off a little more, slower this time, then stopped. 
The kite began to flutter. 

243 



TALES OF FISHES 

I fell into the chair, jammed the rod-butt into the 
socket, and began to pump and wind. 

"Doc, you're hooked on and you've stopped him!" 
boomed Dan. His face beamed. "Look at your 
legs!" 

It became manifest then that my knees were wab- 
bling, my feet puttering around, my whole lower 
limbs shaking as if I had the palsy. I had lost con- 
trol of my lower muscles. It was funny; it was 
ridiculous. It showed just what was my state of 
excitement. 

The kite fluttered down to the water. The kite- 
line had not broken off, and this must add severely 
to the strain on the fish. Not only had I stopped 
the tuna, but soon I had him coming up, slowly 
yet rather easily. He was directly under the boat. 
When I had all save about one hundred feet of line 
wound in the tuna anchored himself and would not 
budge for fifteen minutes. Then again rather easily 
he was raised fifty more feet. He acted like any 
small, hard-fighting fish. 

"I've hooked a little one," I began. "That big 
fellow missed the bait, and a small one grabbed 
it." 

Dan would not say so, but he feared just that. 
What miserable black luck! Almost I threw the 
rod and reel overboard. Some sense, however, pre- 
vented me from such an absurdity. And as I 
worked the tuna closer and closer I grew absolutely 
sick with disappointment. The only thing to do 
was to haul this little fish in and go hunt up the 
school. So I pumped and pulled. That half-hour 
seemed endless and bad business altogether. Anger 

244 




A BLUE-FINNED PLUGGER OF THE DEEP 138-POUND TUNA 



BIG TUNA 

possessed me and I began to work harder. At this 
juncture Shorty's boat appeared close to us. Shorty 
and Adams waved me congratulations, and then 
made motions to Dan to get the direction of the 
school of tuna. That night both Shorty and Adams 
told me that I was working very hard on the fish, 
too hard to save any strength for a long battle. 

Captain Dan watched the slow, steady bends of 
my rod as the tuna plugged, and at last he said, 
"Doc, it's a big fish!" 

Strange to relate, this did not electrify me. I did 
not believe it. But at the end of that half-hour the 
tuna came clear to the surface, about one hundred 
feet from us, and there he rode the swells. Doubt 
folded his sable wings! Bronze and blue and green 
and silver flashes illumined the swells. I plainly 
saw that not only was the tuna big, but he was one 
of the long, slim, hard-fighting species. 

Presently he sounded, and I began to work. I 
was fresh, eager, strong, and I meant to whip him 
quickly. Working on a big tuna is no joke. It is 
a man's job. A tuna fights on his side, with head 
down, and he never stops. If the angler rests the 
tuna will not only rest, too, but he will take more and 
more line. The method is a long, slow lift or pump 
of rod — then lower the rod quickly and wind the 
reel. When the tuna is raised so high he will refuse 
to come any higher, and then there is a deadlock. 
There lives no fisherman but what there lives a tuna 
that can take the conceit and the fight out of him. 

For an hour I worked. I sweat and panted and 
burned in the hot sun; and I enjoyed it. The sea 
was beautiful. A strong, salty fragrance, wet and 

245 



TALES OF FISHES 

sweet, floated on the breeze. Catalina showed clear 
and bright, with its colored cliffs and yellow slides 
and dark ravines. Clemente Island rose a dark, 
long, barren, lonely land to the southeast. The 
clouds in the west were like trade-wind clouds, 
white, regular, with level base-line. 

At the end of the second hour I was tiring. There 
came a subtle change of spirit and mood. I had 
never let up for a minute. Captain Dan praised 
me, vowed I had never fought either broadbill or 
roundbill swordfish so consistently hard, but he 
cautioned me to save myself. 

"That's a big tuna," he said, as he watched my 
rod. 

Most of the time we drifted. Some of the time 
Dan ran the boat to keep even with the tuna, so he 
could not get too far under the stern and cut the 
line. At intervals the fish appeared to let up and 
at others he plugged harder. This I discovered was 
merely that he fought the hardest when I worked 
the hardest. Once we gained enough on him to 
cut the tangle of kite-line that had caught some fifty 
feet above my leader. This afforded cause for less 
anxiety. 

"I'm afraid of sharks," said Dan. 

Sharks are the bane of tuna fishermen. More 
tuna are cut off by sharks than are ever landed by 
anglers. This made me redouble my efforts, and in 
half an hour more I was dripping wet, burning hot, 
aching all over, and so spent I had to rest. Every 
time I dropped the rod on the gunwale the tuna 
took line — zee — zee — zee — foot by foot and yard by 
yard. My hands were cramped; my thumbs red 

246 



BIG TUNA 

and swollen, almost raw. I asked Dan for the har- 
ness, but he was loath to put it on because he was 
afraid I would break the fish off. So I worked on 
and on, with spurts of fury and periods of lagging. 

At the end of three hours I was in bad condition. 
I had saved a little strength for the finish, but I 
was in danger of using that up before the crucial 
moment arrived. Dan had to put the harness on 
me. I knew afterward that it saved the day. By 
the aid of the harness, putting my shoulders into the 
lift, I got the double line over the reel, only to lose 
it. Every time the tuna was pulled near the boat 
he sheered off, and it did not appear possible for me 
to prevent it. He got into a habit of coming to the 
surface about thirty feet out, and hanging there, in 
plain sight, as if he was cabled to the rocks of the 
ocean. Watching him only augmented my trouble. 
It had ceased long ago to be fun or sport or game. 
It was now a fight and it began to be torture. My 
hands were all blisters, my thumbs raw. The re- 
spect I had for that tuna was great. 

He plugged down mostly, but latterly he began to 
run off to each side, to come to the surface, showing 
his broad green-silver side, and then he weaved to 
and fro behind the boat, trying to get under it. 
Captain Dan would have to run ahead to keep away 
from him. To hold what gain I had on the tuna 
was at these periods almost unendurable. Where 
before I had sweat, burned, throbbed, and ached, I 
now began to see red, to grow dizzy, to suffer cramps 
and nausea and exceeding pain. 

Three hours and a half showed the tuna slower, 
heavier, higher, easier. He had taken us fifteen 

247 



TALES OF FISHES 

miles from where we had hooked him. He was 
weakening, but I thought I was worse off than he was. 
Dan changed the harness. It seemed to make more 
effort possible. 

The floor under my feet was wet and slippery 
from the salt water dripping off my reel. I could 
not get any footing. The bend of that rod down- 
ward, the ceaseless tug, tug, tug, the fear of sharks, 
the paradoxical loss of desire now to land the tuna, 
the change in my feeling of elation and thrill to 
wonder, disgust, and utter weariness of spirit and 
body — all these warned me that I was at the end of 
my tether, and if anything could be done it must be 
quickly. 

Relaxing, I took a short rest. Then nerving my- 
self to be indifferent to the pain, and yielding alto- 
gether to the brutal instinct this tuna-fighting rouses 
in a fisherman, I lay back with might and main. 
Eight times I had gotten the double line over the 
reel. On the ninth I shut down, clamped with 
my thumbs, and froze there. The wire leader sung 
like a telephone wire in the cold. I could scarcely 
see. My arms cracked. I felt an immense strain 
that must break me in an instant. 

Captain Dan reached the leader. Slowly he 
heaved. The strain upon me was released. I let 
go the reel, threw off the drag, and stood up. There 
the tuna was, the bronze-and-blue-backed devil, 
gaping, wide-eyed, shining and silvery as he rolled, 
a big tuna if there ever was one, and he was con- 
quered. 

When Dan lunged with the gaff the tuna made a 
tremendous splash that deluged us. Then Dan 

248 



BIG TUNA 

yelled for another gaff. I was quick to get it. Next 
it was for me to throw a lasso over that threshing 
tail. When I accomplished this the tuna was ours. 
We hauled him up on the stern, heaving, thumping, 
throwing water and blood; and even vanquished he 
was magnificent. Three hours and fifty minutes! 
The number fifty stayed with me. As I fell back in 
a chair, all in, I could not see for my life why any 
fisherman would want to catch more than one large 
tuna. 



XIV 

AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL 

IF you are a fisherman, and aspire to the study or 
conquest of the big game of the sea, go to Catalina 
Island once before it is too late. 

The summer of 1917 will never be forgotten by 
those fishermen who were fortunate enough to be 
at Avalon. Early in June, even in May, there were 
indications that the first record season in many years 
might be expected. Barracuda and white sea-bass 
showed up in great schools; the ocean appeared to 
be full of albacore; yellowtail began to strike all 
along the island shores and even in the bay of Avalon; 
almost every day in July sight of broadbill sword- 
fish was reported, sometimes as many as ten in a 
day; in August the blue-fin tuna surged in, school 
after school, in vast numbers; and in September 
returned the Marlin, or roundbill swordfish that 
royal-purple swashbuckler of the Pacific. 

This extraordinary run of fish appeared like old 
times to the boatmen and natives who could look 
back over many Catalina years. The cause, of 
course, was a favorable season when the sardines 
and anchovies came to the island in incalculable 
numbers. Acres and acres of these little bait fish 
drifted helplessly to and fro, back and forth with 

250 



AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL 

the tides, from Seal Rocks to the west end. These 
schools were not broken up until the advent of the 
voracious tuna; and when they arrived the ocean 
soon seemed littered with small, amber-colored 
patches, each of which was a densely packed mass 
of sardines or anchovies, drifting with the current. 
It has not yet been established that swordfish feed 
on these schools, but the swordfish were there in 
abundance, at any rate; and it was reasonable to 
suppose that some of the fish they feed on were in 
pursuit of the anchovies. 

Albacore feeding on the surface raise a thin, low, 
white line of water or multitudes of slight, broken 
splashes. Tuna raise a white wall, tumbling and 
spouting along the horizon; and it is a sight not soon 
to be forgotten by a fisherman. Near at hand a 
big school of feeding tuna is a thrilling spectacle. 
They move swiftly, breaking water as they smash 
after the little fish, and the roar can be heard quite 
a distance. The wall of white water seems full of 
millions of tiny, glinting fish, leaping frantically from 
the savage tuna. And when the sunlight shines 
golden through this wall of white spray, and the 
great bronze and silver and blue tuna gleam for an 
instant, the effect is singularly exciting and beautiful. 

All through August and much of September these 
schools of tuna, thousands of them, ranted up and 
down the coast of Catalina, thinning out the amber 
patches of anchovies, and affording the most mag- 
nificent sport to anglers. 

These tuna may return next year and then again 
they may not return for ten years. Some time again 
they will swing round the circle or drift with the 

251 



TALES OF FISHES 

currents, in that mysterious and inscrutable nature 
of the ocean. And if a fisherman can only pick 
out the year or have the obsession to go back season 
after season he will some day see these wonderful 
schools again. 

But as for the other fish — swordfish, white sea- 
bass, yellowtail, and albacore — their doom has been 
spelled, and soon they will be no more. That is 
why I say to fishermen if they want to learn some- 
thing about these incomparable fish they must go 
soon to Catalina before it is too late. 

The Japs, the Austrians, the round-haul nets, the 
canneries and the fertilizer-plants — that is to say, 
foreigners and markets, greed and war, have cast 
their dark shadow over beautiful Avalon. The in- 
telligent, far-seeing boatmen all see it. My boat- 
man, Captain Danielson, spoke gloomily of the not 
distant time when his occupation would be gone. 
And as for the anglers who fish at Catalina, some 
of them see it and many of them do not. The stand- 
ard raised at Avalon has been to haul in as many 
of the biggest fish in the least possible time. One 
famous fisherman brought in thirteen tuna — nine 
hundred and eighty-six pounds of tuna — that he 
caught in one day! This is unbelievable, yet it is 
true. Another brought in eleven tuna in one day. 
These fishermen are representative of the coterie 
who fish for records. All of them are big, powerful 
men, and when they hook a fish they will not give him 
a foot of line if they can help it. They horse him 
in, and if they can horse him in before he wakes up 
to real combat they are the better pleased. All of 
which is to say that the true motive (or pleasure, 

252 




THE OLD AVALON BARGE WHERE THE GULLS FISH AND SCREAM 



AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL 

if it can be such) is the instinct to kill. I have ob- 
served this in many fishermen. Any one who 
imagines that man has advanced much beyond the 
savage stage has only carefully to observe fisher- 
men. 

I have demonstrated the practicability of letting 
Marlin swordfish go after they were beaten, but 
almost all of the boatmen will not do it. The greater 
number of swordfish weigh under two hundred 
pounds, and when exhausted and pulled up to the 
boat they can be freed by cutting the wire leader 
close to the hook. Probably all these fish would 
live. A fisherman will have his fun seeing and 
photographing the wonderful leaps, and conquering 
the fish, and when all this is over it would be sports- 
man-like to let him go. Marlin are not food fish, 
and they are thrown to the sharks. During 1918, 
however, many were sold as food fish. It seems a 
pity to treat this royal, fighting, wonderful, purple- 
colored fish in this way. But the boatmen will not 
free them. My boatman claimed that his reputa- 
tion depended upon the swordfish he caught; and 
that in Avalon no one would believe fish were caught 
unless brought to the dock. It was his bread and 
butter. His reputation brought him new fisher- 
men, and so he could not afford to lose it. Never- 
theless, he was persuaded to do it in 1918. The 
fault, then, does not lie with the boatman. 

The Japs are the greatest market fishermen in 
the world. And some five hundred boats put out 
of San Pedro every day, to scour the ocean for "the 
chicken of the sea," as albacore are advertised to 
the millions of people who are always hungry. It 

253 



TALES OF FISHES 

must be said that the Japs mostly fish square. They 
use a hook, and a barbless hook at that. Usually 
four Japs constitute the crew of one of these fast 
eighty-horse-power motor-boats. They roam the 
sea with sharp eyes ever alert for that thin white 
line on the horizon, the feeding albacore. Their 
method of fishing is unique and picturesque. When 
they sight albacore they run up on the school and 
slow down. 

In the stern of the boat stands a huge tank, 
usually painted red. I have become used to seeing 
dots of red all over the ocean. This tank is kept 
full of fresh sea-water by a pump connected with 
the engine, and it is used to keep live bait — no other 
than the little anchovies. One Jap, using a little net, 
dips up live bait and throws them overboard to the 
albacore. Another Jap beats on the water with 
long bamboo poles, making splashes. The other two 
Japs have short, stiff poles with a wire attached and 
the barbless hook at the end. They put on a live 
bait and toss it over. Instantly they jerk hard, 
and two big white albacore, from fifteen to thirty 
pounds, come wiggling up on to the stern of the 
boat. Down goes the pole and whack! goes a club. 
It is all done with swift mechanical precision. It 
used to amaze me and fill me with sadness. If the 
Japs could hold the school of albacore they would 
very soon load the boat. But usually a school of 
albacore cannot be held long. 

You cannot fish in the channel any more without 
encountering these Jap boats. Once at one time 
in 1917 I saw one hundred and thirty-two boats. 
Most of them were fishing! They ran to and for 

254 



AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL 

over the ocean, chasing every white splash, and they 
make an angler's pleasure taste bitter. 

Fortunately the Japs had let the tuna alone, for 
the simple and good reason that they had not found 
a way to catch the wise blue-fins. But they will find 
a way ! Yet they drove the schools down, and that 
was almost as bad. As far as swordfish are concerned, 
it is easy to see what will happen, now that the alba- 
core have become scarce. Broadbill swordfish are the 
finest food fish in the sea. They can be easily har- 
pooned by these skilful Japs. And so eventually they 
will be killed and driven away. This misfortune may 
not come at once, but it will come. 

In this connection it is interesting to note that I 
tried to photograph one of the Austrian crews in 
action. But Captain Dan would not let me get 
near enough to take a picture. There is bad blood 
between Avalon boatmen and these foreign market 
fishermen. Shots had been exchanged more than 
once. Captain Dan kept a rifle on board. This 
news sort of stirred me. And I said: "Run close to 
that bunch, Cap. Maybe they'll take a peg at me!" 
But he refused to comply, and I lost a chance to 
serve my country! 

The Japs, however, are square fishermen, mostly, 
and I rather admire those albacore-chasers, who at 
least give the fish a chance. Some of them use nets, 
and against them and the Austrian round-haul 
netters I am exceedingly bitter. These round-haul 
nets, some of them, must be a mile long, and they 
sink two hundred feet in the water. What chance 
has a school of fish against that? They surround 
a school and there is no escape. 

255 



TALES OF FISHES 

Clemente Island, the sister island to Catalina, 
was once a paradise for fish, especially the beautiful, 
gamy yellowtail. But there are no more fish there, 
except Marlin swordfish in August and September. 
The great, boiling schools of yellowtail are gone. 
Clemente Island has no three-mile law protecting 
it, as has Catalina. But that Catalina law has be- 
come a farce. It is violated often in broad day- 
light, and probably all night long. One Austrian 
round-haul netter took seven tons of white sea-bass 
in one haul. Seven tons! Did you ever look at a 
white sea-bass? He is the most beautiful of bass — 
slender, graceful, thoroughbred, exquisitely colored 
like a paling opal, and a fighter if there ever was one. 

What becomes of these seven tons of white sea- 
bass and all the other tons and tons of yellowtail 
and albacore? That is a question. It needs to be 
answered. During the year 1917 one heard many 
things. The fish-canneries were working day and 
night, and every can of fish — the whole output had 
been bought by the government for the soldiers. 
Very good. We are a nation at war. Our soldiers 
must be properly fed and so must our allies. If it 
takes all the fish in the sea and all the meat on the 
land, we must and will win this war. 

But real patriotism is one thing and misstatement 
is another. If there were not so much deceit and 
greed in connection with this war it would be easier 
to stomach. 

As a matter of cold fact, that round-haul netter's 
seven tons of beautiful white sea-bass did not go 
into cans for our good soldiers or for our fighting 
allies. Those seven tons of splendid white sea-bass 

256 



AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL 

went into the fertilizer-plant, where many and 
many a ton had gone before! 

It is not hard to comprehend. When they work 
for the fertilizer-plants they do not need ice — they 
do not need to hurry to the port to save spoiling — 
they can stay out till the boat is packed full. So 
often a greater part of the magnificent schools of 
white sea-bass, albacore, and yellowtail — splendid 
food fish — go into the fertilizer-plants to make a few 
foreign-born hogs rich. Hundreds of aliens, many 
of them hostile to the United States, are making 
big money, which is sent abroad. 

I believe that the great kelp-beds round Catalina 
are the spawning-grounds of these fish in question. 
And not only a spawning-ground, but, what is more 
important, a feeding-ground. And now the kelp- 
beds are being exploited. The government needs 
potash. Formerly our supply of potash came from 
Germany. But, now that we are not on amiable 
terms with those nice gentle Germans, we cannot get 
any potash. Hence the great, huge kelp-cutters that 
you hear cut only the tops of the kelp-beds. Six feet 
they say, and it all grows up again quickly. But in 
my opinion the once vast, heaving, wonderful beds 
of kelp along the Clemente and Catalina shores have 
been cut too deeply. They will die. 

Some of my predictions made in 1917 were veri- 
fied in 1918. 

A few scattered schools of albacore appeared in 
the channel in July. But these were soon caught or 
chased away by the market boats. Albacore-fishing 
was poor in other localities up and down the coast. 
Many of the Jap fishermen sold their boats and 

257 



TALES OF FISHES 

sought other industry. It was a fact, and a great 
pleasure, that an angler could go out for tuna with- 
out encountering a single market boat on the sea. 
Maybe the albacore did not come this year; maybe 
they were mostly all caught; maybe they were 
growing shyer of boats; at any event, they were 
scarce, and the reason seems easy to see. 

It was significant that the broadbill swordfish did 
not return to Avalon in 1918, as in former years. 
I saw only one in two months roaming the ocean. 
A few were seen. Not one was caught during my 
stay on the island. Many boatmen and anglers be- 
lieve that the broadbills follow the albacore. It 
seems safe to predict that when the albacore cease 
to come to Catalina there will not be any fishing for 
the great flat-sworded Xiphias. 

The worst that came to pass in 1918, from an 
angler's viewpoint, was that the market fishermen 
found a way to net the blue-fin tuna, both large 
and small. All I could learn was that the nets 
were lengthened and deepened. The Japs got into 
the great schools of large tuna which appeared off 
Anacapa Island and netted tons and tons of hundred- 
pound tuna. These schools drifted on down the 
middle of the Clemente Channel, and I was the 
lucky fellow who happened to get among them for 
one memorable day. 

Take it all in all, my gloomy prophecies of other 
years were substantiated in 1918, especially in re- 
gard to the devastated kelp-beds; but there have 
been a few silver rifts in the black cloud, and it 
seems well to end this book with mention of brighter 
things. 

258 



AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL 

All fish brought into Avalon in 1918 were sold for 
food. 

We inaugurated the releasing of small Marlin 
swordfish. 

There was a great increase in the interest taken 
in the use of light tackle. 

We owe the latter stride toward conservation and 
sportsmanship to Mr. James Jump, and to Lone 
Angler, and to President Coxe of the Tuna Club. 
I had not been entirely in sympathy with their feats 
of taking Marlin swordfish and tuna on light tackle. 
My objections to the use of too light tackle have 
been cited before in this book. Many fish break 
away on the nine-thread. I know this because I 
tried it out. Fifteen of those small tuna, one after 
another, broke my line on the first rush. But I 
believe that was my lack of skill with handling of 
rod and boat. 

As for Marlin, I have always known that I could 
take some of these roundbill swordfish on light 
tackle. But likewise there have been some that 
could not have been taken so, and these are the 
swordfish I have fished for. 

Nevertheless, I certainly do not want to detract 
from Jump's achievements, as I will show. They 
have been remarkable. And they have attracted wide 
attention to the possibilities of light tackle. Thus 
Mr. Jump has done conservative angling an estimable 
good, as well as placed himself in a class alone. 

The use of light tackle by experts for big game fish 
of the sea has come to be an established practice in 
American angling. A few years ago, when sport 
with light tackle was exceptional, it required courage 

259 



TALES OF FISHES 

to flaunt its use in the faces of fishermen of experience 
and established reputation. Long Key, now the 
most noted fishing resort on the Atlantic coast, was 
not many years back a place for hand-lines and huge 
rods and tackle, and boat-loads of fish for one man. 
It has become a resort for gentlemen anglers, and 
its sportsmen's club claims such experts and fine 
exponents of angling as Heilner, Lester, Cassiard, 
Crowninshield, Conill, the Schutts, and others, who 
can safely be trusted to advance the standard. 
Fishermen are like sheep — they follow the boldest 
leaders. And no one wants to be despised by the 
elect. Long Key, with its isolation, yet easy ac- 
cession, its beauty and charm, its loneliness and 
quiet, its big game fish, will become the Mecca of 
high-class light-tackle anglers, who will in time 
answer for the ethics and sportsmanship of the At- 
lantic seaboard. 

On the Pacific side the light-tackle advocates have 
had a different row to hoe. With nothing but keen, 
fair, honest, and splendid zealousness Mr. James 
Jump has pioneered this sport almost single-handed 
against the heavy-tackle record-holder who until 
recently dominated the Tuna Club and the boat- 
men and the fishing at Avalon. To my shame and 
regret I confess that it took me three years to recog- 
nize Jump's bigness as an angler and his tenacity 
as a fighter. But I shall make amends. It seems 
when I fished I was steeped in dreams of the sea 
and the beauty of the lonely islands. I am not in 
Jump's class as a fisherman, nor in Lone Angler's, 
either. They stand by themselves. But I can write 
about them, and so inspire others. 

260 



AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL 

Jump set out in 1914 to catch swordfish on light 
tackle, and incidentally tuna under one hundred 
pounds. He was ridiculed, scorned, scoffed at, made 
a butt of by this particular heavy-tackle angler, and 
cordially hated for his ambitions. Most anglers and 
boatmen repudiated his claims and looked askance 
at him. Personally I believed Jump might catch 
some swordfish or tuna on light tackle, but only one 
out of many, and that one not the fighting kind. I 
was wrong. It was Lone Angler who first drew my 
attention to Jump's achievements and possibilities. 
President Coxe was alive to them also, and he has 
rebuilt and rejuvenated the Tuna Club on the splen- 
did standard set by its founder, Dr. Charles Freder- 
ick Holder, and with infinite patience and tact and 
labor, and love of fine angling and good fellowship, 
he has put down that small but mighty clique who 
threatened the ruin of sport at fair Avalon. This 
has not been public news, but it ought to be and 
shall be public news. 

The malignant attack recently made upon Mr. 
Jump's catches of Marlin swordfish on light tackle 
was uncalled for and utterly false. It was an ob- 
vious and jealous attempt to belittle, discredit, 
and dishonor one of the finest gentlemen sports- 
men who ever worked for the good of the game. 
I know and I will swear that Jump's capture 
of the three-hundred-and-fourteen-pound Marlin on 
light tackle in twenty - eight minutes was abso- 
lutely as honest as it was skilful, as sportsman- 
like as it was wonderful. A number of well- 
known sportsmen watched him take this Marlin. 
Yet his enemies slandered him, accused him of 

261 



TALES OF FISHES 

using ropes and Heaven knows what else! It was 
vile and it failed. 

Jump has performed the apparently impossible. 
Marlin swordfish hooked on light tackle can be 
handled by an exceedingly skilful angler. They 
make an indescribably spectacular, wonderful fight, 
on the surface all the time, and can be taken as 
quickly as on heavy tackle. Obviously, then, this 
becomes true of tarpon and sailfish and small tuna. 
What a world to conquer lies before the fine-spirited 
angler! A few fish on light outfits magnifying all 
the excitement and thrills of many fish on heavy 
outfits! There are no arguments against this, for 
men who have time and money. 

We pioneers of light tackle are out of the woods 
now. There was a pride in a fight against odds — 
a pride of silence, and a fight of example and ex- 
pressed standards and splendid achievements. But 
now we have followers, disciples who have learned, 
who have profited, who have climbed to the heights, 
and we are no longer alone. Hence we can scatter 
the news to the four winds and ask for the comrade- 
ship of kindred spirits, of men who love the sea and 
the stream and the gameness of a fish. The Open 
Sesame to our clan is just that love, and an ambition 
to achieve higher things. Who fishes just to kill? At 
Long Key last winter I met two self-styled sports- 
men. They were eager to convert me to what they 
claimed was the dry-fly class angling of the sea. 
And it was to jab harpoons and spears into porpoises 
and manatee and sawfish, and be dragged about 
in their boat. The height of their achievements 
that winter had been the harpooning of several saw- 

262 



AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL 

fish, each of which gave birth to a little one while 
being fought on the harpoon! Ye gods! It would 
never do to record my utterances. 

But I record this fact only in the hope of opening 
the eyes of anglers. I have no ax to grind for my- 
self. I have gone through the game, over to the 
fair side, and I want anglers to know. 

We are a nation of fishermen and riflemen. Who 
says the Americans cannot shoot or fight? What 
made that great bunch of Yankee boys turn back 
the Hun hordes? It was the quick eye, the steady 
nerve, the unquenchable spirit of the American boy 
— his heritage from his hunter forefathers. We are 
great fishermen's sons also, and we can save the 
fish that are being depleted in our waters. 

Let every angler who loves to fish think what it 
would mean to him to find the fish were gone. The 
mackerel are gone, the bluefish are going, the men- 
haden are gone, every year the amber jack and king- 
fish grow smaller and fewer. We must find ways 
and means to save our game fish of the sea; and 
one of the finest and most sportsman-like ways is to 
use light tackle. 

Wiborn, the Lone Angler, is also in a class by him- 
self. To my mind Wiborn is the ideal angler of the 
sea. I have aspired to his method, but realize it is 
impossible for me. He goes out alone. Hence the 
name Lone Angler. He operates his motor-launch, 
rigs his tackle and bait and teasers, flies his kite, 
finds the fish, fights the one he hooks, and gaffs and 
hauls it aboard or releases it, all by himself. Any 
one who has had the slightest experience in Pacific 

263 



TALES OF FISHES 

angling can appreciate this hazardous, complicated, 
and laborsome job of the Lone Angler. Any one who 
ever fought a big tuna or swordfish can imagine 
where he would have been without a boatman. 
After some of my fights with fish Captain Danielson 
has been as tired as I was. His job had been as 
hard as mine. But Wiborn goes out day by day 
alone, and he has brought in big tuna and swordfish. 
Not many! He is too fine a sportsman to bring 
in many fish. 

And herein is the point I want to drive home in 
my tribute to Lone Angler. No one can say how 
many fish he catches. He never tells. Always he 
has a fine, wonderful, beautiful day on the water. 
It matters not to him, the bringing home of fish to 
exhibit. This roused my admiration, and also my 
suspicion. I got to believing that Lone Angler 
caught many more fish than he ever brought home. 

So I spied upon him. Whenever chance afforded 
I watched him through my powerful binoculars. He 
was always busy. His swift boat roamed the seas. 
Always he appeared a white dot on the blue horizon, 
like the flash of a gull. I have watched his kite 
flutter down; I have seen his boat stop and stand 
still; I have seen sheeted splashes of water near 
him; and more than once I have seen him leaning 
back with beet rod, working and pumping hard. 
But when he came into Avalon on these specific oc- 
casions, he brought no tuna, no swordfish — nothing 
but a cheerful, enigmatic smile and a hopeful ques- 
tion as to the good luck of his friends. 

"But I saw you hauling away on a fish," I vent- 
ured to say, once. 

264 



AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL 

"Oh, that was an old shark," he replied, laughing. 

Well, it might have been, but I had my doubts. 
And at the close of 1918 I believed, though I could 
not prove, that Lone Angler let the most of his fish 
go free. Hail to Lone Angler! If a man must 
roam the salt sea in search of health and peace, and 
in a manly, red-blooded exercise — here is the ideal. 
I have not seen its equal. I envy him — his mechani- 
cal skill, his fearlessness of distance and fog and 
wind, his dexterity with kite and rod and wheel, but 
especially I envy him the lonesome rides upon a lone- 
some sea — 

Alone, all alone on a wide, wide sea. 

The long, heaving swells, the windy lanes, the 
flight of the sheerwater and the uplifted flukes of 
the whale, the white wall of tuna on the horizon, 
the leap of the dolphin, the sweet, soft scent that 
breathes from off the sea, the beauty and mystery 
and color and movement of the deep — these are 
Lone Angler's alone, and he is as rich as if he had 
found the sands of the Pacific to be pearls, the 
waters nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 

Happily, neither war nor business nor fish-hogs 
can ruin the wonderful climate of Catalina Island. 
Nature does not cater to evil conditions. The sun 
and the fog, the great, calm Pacific, the warm 
Japanese current, the pleasant winds — these all have 
their tasks, and they perform them faithfully, to 
the happiness of those who linger at Catalina. 

Avalon, the beautiful! Somehow even the fire 
that destroyed half of Avalon did not greatly mar 

265 



TALES OF FISHES 

its beauty. At a distance the bay and the grove 
of eucalyptus-trees, the green-and-gold slopes, look 
as they always looked. Avalon has a singular charm 
outside of its sport of fishing. It is the most delight- 
ful and comfortable place I ever visited. The nights 
are cool. You sleep under blankets even when over 
in Los Angeles people are suffocating with the heat. 
At dawn the hills are obscured in fog and sometimes 
this fog is chilly. But early or late in the morning 
it breaks up and rolls away. The sun shines. It is 
the kind of sunshine that dazzles the eye, elevates the 
spirit, and warms the back. And out there rolls the 
vast blue Pacific — calm, slowly heaving, beautiful, 
and mysterious. 

During the summer months Avalon is gay, color- 
ful, happy, and mirthful with its crowds of tourists 
and summer visitors. The one broad street runs 
along the beach and I venture to say no other street 
in America can compare with it for lazy, idle, com- 
fortable, pleasant, and picturesque effects. It is 
difficult to determine just where the beach begins 
and the street ends, because of the strollers in bath- 
ing-suits. Many a time, after a long fishing-day 
on the water, as I was walking up the middle of the 
street, I have been stunned to a gasp by the startling 
apparition of Venus or Hebe or Little Egypt or 
Annette Kellermann parading nonchalantly to and 
fro. It seems reasonable and fair to give notice 
that broadbill swordfish are not the only dangers to 
encounter at Avalon. I wish they had a policeman 
there. 

But the spirit of Avalon, like the climate, is some- 
thing to love. It is free, careless, mirthful, whole- 

266 



AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL 

some, restful, and serene. The resort is democratic 
and indifferent and aloof. Yet there is always mirth, 
music, and laughter. Many and many a night have 
I awakened, anywhere from ten to one, to listen to 
the low lap of the waves on the beach, the soft 
tones of an Hawaiian ukulele, the weird cry of a 
nocturnal sea-gull, the bark of a sea-lion, or the faint, 
haunting laugh of some happy girl, going by late, 
perhaps with her lover. 

Avalon is so clean and sweet. It is the only place 
I have been, except Long Key, where the omnipres- 
ent, hateful, and stinking automobile does not ob- 
trude upon real content. Think of air not reeking 
with gasolene and a street safe to cross at any time! 
Safe, I mean, of course, from being run down by 
some joy-rider. You are liable to encounter one 
of the Loreleis or Aphrodites at any hour from five 
till sunset. You must risk chance of that. 

So, in conclusion, let me repeat that if you are a 
fisherman of any degree, and if you aspire to some 
wonderful experiences with the great and vanishing 
game fish of the Pacific, and if you would love to 
associate with these adventures some dazzling white 
hot days, and unforgetable cool nights where your 
eyelids get glued with sleep, and the fragrant salt 
breath of the sea, its music and motion and color 
and mystery and beauty — then go to Avalon before 
it is too late. 

THE END 



3477 






> 

■ 

.■■■■: ' - 

• •- . ■,■..-■. 



■a ■ "■ '■■ i ' ■ ■ i 
- 

■ '. IS i '' h -. n i . 

' . . ■„. 

■ . ■ ■ 

■ > 

• . ; ; '.' . . 

■ . '■• ■ ~. ' . ' I ' : ■ 

■ 

: . 



■■'■ 

■ 
■■ ■ ■• I 







• 






- 








































" 











